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DR.  K.M.  KHANTAMOUR 
ARMENIAN  COLLECTION 


IflifefrarFv.xTJnil 


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ARMENIAN   POEMS 


Armenian  Poems 


RENDERED    INTO    ENGLISH    VERSE 


BY 


ALICE    STONE    BLACKWELL 


FOR  SALE  BY 

ROBERT  CHAMBERS 

Room  616,  Ford   Building 

BOSTON,  MASS. 

1917 


r 


V 


ATLANTIC  PRINTING  COMPANY 

201  SOUTH   STREET 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


V  K 


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PREFACE. 


wo  considerations  led  to  the  publication  of  this 
book.  The  first  was  the  belief  that  the  sym- 
pathy felt  for  the  Armenians  in  their  unspeak- 
able sufferings  at  the  hands  of  the  Turks  would  be 
deepened  by  an  acquaintance  with  the  temper  and 
genius  of  the  people,  as  shown  in  their  poetry. 

The  second  was  the  fact  that  Armenian  poetic 
literature,  while  well  worthy  to  be  known,  was  prac- 
tically inaccessible  to  English-speaking  readers.  Its 
treasures  are  locked  up  in  an  almost  unknown  language. 

Each  of  these  translations  in  verse  has  been  made 
from  a  literal  translation  in  prose,  furnished  to  me  in 
English  or  French  by  my  Armenian  friends.  Among 
those  who  rendered  this  help  were  the  late  Mr.  Ohannes 
Chatschumian  of  Leipzig  University,  Professor  Minas 
Tcheraz  of  King's  College,  London,  editor  of  "L'Ar- 
menie;"  the  late  Kevork  Tourian,  the  martyred  Bishop 
of  Trebizond:  Archag  Tchobanian,  Garabed  H.  Papa- 
zian,  Haroutune  Asian,  Arsen  Dirah,  Avedis  B.  Selian, 


t'>i. 


H  PREFACE. 

Sahag  Chuchian,  Aram  Torossian,  Karekin  Manoukian, 
O.  H.  Ateshian,  Arshag  D.  Mahdesian,  editor  of  "The 
New  Armenia,"  Bedros  A.  Keljik  and  D.  K.  Varzha- 
bedian. 

The  poems  that  make  up  the  first  part  of  this  volume 
were  published  by  Roberts  Brothers  in  1896.  They 
were  well  received,  as  the  press  comment  in  the  Appen- 
dix will  show.  The  book  has  been  long  out  of  print. 
This  new  and  enlarged  edition  has  been  privately 
printed  in  order  that  the  entire  proceeds  might  go  to 
the  relief  fund. 

Alice  Stone  Blackwell. 

3  MoNADNOCK  Street,  Dorchester,  Mass. 


INTRODUCTION. 


|RMENIAN  poetry  is  so  full  of  allusions  to 
Vartan,  Avarair,  Haig,  an.i  Thorkom  or 
Togarmah,  as  well  as  to  ihe  Garden  of 
Eden,  that  a  few  preliminary  notes  are 
necessary  by  way  of  explanation. 

Armenia  is  a  mountainous  region  of  Western  Asia, 
lying  around  Mount  Ararat,  and  containing  the  sources 
of  the  Tigris,  Euphrates,  and  Araxes  rivers.  It  is 
south  of  the  Caucasus  Mountains,  between  the  Black, 
Caspian,  and  Mediterranean  seas.  According  to  tra- 
dition, it  was  the  site  of  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

Armenia  was  the  seat  of  one  of  the  most  ancient 
civilizations  of  the  globe.  Its  people  were  contem- 
porary with  the  Assyrians  and  Babylonians.  They 
are  of  Aryan  race,  and  of  pure  Caucasian  blood. 

Their  origin  is  lost  in  the  mists  of  antiquity.  Ac- 
cording  to  their  own  tradition,  they  are  the  descendants 
of  Thorkom,  or  Togarmah,  a  grandson  of  Japhet,  who 
settled  in  Armenia  after  the  Ark  rested  on  Ararat; 
They  call  themselves  Haik,  and  their  country  Haias: 
dan,  after  Haig,  the  son  of  Togarmah.  one  of  their 
greatest  kings.     In  the  earliest  days  of  recorder:!  his- 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

tory,  we  find  them  occupying  their  present  home. 
They  are  referred  to  by  Herodotus.  Xenophon  de- 
scribes their  manners  and  customs  much  as  they  still 
exist.  In  the  Bible  it  is  mentioned  that  the  sons  of 
Sennacherib  escaped  "into  the  land  of  Armenia." 
l^^zekiel  also  refers  to  Armenia,  under  the  name  of 
Togarmah,  as  furnishing  Tyre  with  horses  and  mules, 
animals  for  which  it  is  still  famous;  and  "the  King- 
dom of  Ararat "  is  one  of  the  nations  summoned  by 
Jeremiah  to  aid  in  the  destruction  of  Babylon. 

Tradition  relates  that  Christianity  was  preached  in 
Armenia  early  in  the  first  century,  by  the  Apostles 
Thaddeus  and  Bartholomew.  It  is  historic  fact  that 
in  A.  D.  276  the  king  and  the  whole  nation  became 
Christian,  under  the  preaching  of  Saint  Gregory,  called 
"the  Illuminator."  The  Armenian  Church  is  thus 
the  oldest  national  Christian  church  in  the  world. 

As  a  Christian  nation  whose  lot  has  been  cast  be- 
yond the  frontiers  of  Christendom,  the  Armenians 
have  had  to  suffer  constant  persecution,  —  in  early  times 
from  the  Persian  fire-worshippers,  in  later  centuries 
from  the  Mohammedans.  Since  the  withdrawal  of 
the  Crusaders,  to  whom  they  alone  of  Asiatic  nations 
gave  aid  and  co-operation,  the  Armenians  have  been 
at  the  mercy  of  the  surrounding  heathen  peoples. 
Their  country  has  been  invaded  successively  by  the 
Caliphs  of  Bagdad,  the  Sultans  of  Egypt,  the  Khans 
of  Tartary,  the  Shahs  of  Persia,  and  the  Ottoman 
Turks.  All  these  invasions  were  accompanied  by 
fierce  persecutions  and  great  barbarities  ;  but  the  Ar- 
menians have  held  tenaciously  to  their  faith  for  more 
than  fifteen  hundred  years. 


INTRODUCTION.  y 

In  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century  Armenia  had 
already  lost  its  national  independence.  It  was  ruled 
by  feudal  chiefs  and  princes  who  were  subject  to  the 
King  of  Persia.  The  Persians  at  this  time  were  aim- 
ing at  the  conquest  and  conversion  of  the  world.  In 
A.  D.  450  the  Persian  King  sent  a  letter  to  the  Arme- 
nian princes,  setting  forth  the  excellence  of  fire-wor- 
ship and  the  foolishness  of  Christianity,  and  formally 
summoning  Armenia  to  embrace  fire-worship.  A  great 
council  was  called,  in  which  bishops  and  laymen  sat 
together,  and  a  reply  of  unanimous  refusal  was  drawn 
up.  Eghiche',  an  Armenian  historian  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury, one  of  the  bishops  who  signed  the  refusal,  has 
preserved  in  his  history  the  text  of  this  remarkable 
document.  First  they  answered  at  considerable  length 
the  arguments  of  the  Persian  King  against  Christianity. 
In  conclusion  they  said  :  — 

"  From  this  faith  no  one  can  move  us,  —  neither  angels 
nor  men  ;  neither  sword,  nor  fire,  nor  water,  nor  any 
deadly  punishment.  If  you  leave  us  our  faith,  we  will 
accept  no  other  lord  in  place  of  you  ;  but  we  will 
accept  no  God  in  place  of  Jesus  Christ :  there  is  no 
other  God  beside  him.  If,  after  this  great  confession, 
you  ask  anything  more  of  us,  lo,  we  are  before  you, 
and  our  lives  are  in  your  power.  From  you,  torments  ; 
from  us,  submission  ;  your  sword,  our  necks.  We  are 
not  better  than  those  who  have  gone  before  us,  who 
gave  up  their  goods  and  their  lives  for  this  testimony." 

The  King  of  Persia  was  as  much  amazed  as  enraged 
by  the  boldness  of  this  reply  ;  for  Armenia  was  a  small 
country,  and  stood  alone,  without  allies,  against  the  vast 
power  of  Persia.     .\  Persian  army  of  200,000  men  was 


vi  INTRODUCTION. 

sent  into  Armenia.  The  battle  was  fought  on  the  plain 
of  Avarair,  under  Mount  Ararat.  The  much  smaller  force 
of  the  Armenians  was  defeated,  and  their  leader,  Var- 
tan,  was  killed.  But  the  obstinate  resistance  offered  by 
rich  and  poor  —  men.  women,  and  children  —  convinced 
the  King  of  Persia  that  he  could  never  make  fire- 
worshippers  of  the  Armenians.  As  the  old  historian 
quaintly  expresses  it,  "  The  swords  of  the  slayers  grew 
dull,  but  their  necks  were  not  weary."  Even  the  high- 
priest  of  fire  saw  that  the  Persians  had  undertaken  an 
impossibility,  and  said  to  the  Persian  King  :  — 

"  These  people  have  put  on  Christianity,  not  like  a 
garment,  but  like  their  flesh  and  blood.  Men  who  do 
not  dread  fetters,  nor  fear  torments,  nor  care  for  their 
property,  and,  what  is  worst  of  all,  who  choose  death 
rather  than  life,  —  who  can  stand  against  them?" 

This  battle  was  the  Armenian  Marathon,  and  the 
national  songs  are  full  of  allusions  to  it.  To-day,  after 
fifteen  hundred  years,  the  mountaineers  of  the  Cauca- 
sus, at  their  festivals,  still  drink  the  health  of  Vartan 
next  after  that  of  the  Catholicos,  or  head  of  their 
church.  From  time  immemorial  it  has  been  the  cus- 
tom in  Armenian  schools  to  celebrate  the  anniversary 
of  the  battle  with  songs  and  recitations,  and  to  wreathe 
the  picture  of  Vartan  with  red  flowers.  Of  late  years 
this  celebration  has  been  forbidfien  by  the  Russian  and 
Turkish  governments. 

In  the  minds  of  the  common  people,  all  sorts  of  pic- 
turesque superstitions  still  cluster  around  that  battle- 
field. A  particular  kind  of  red  flowers  grow  there, 
that  are  found  nowhere  else,  and  it  is  believed  that 
they  sprang  from  the  blood  of  the  Christian  army,     A 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

species  of  antelope,  with  a  pouch  on  its  breast  secret- 
ing a  fragrant  musk,  is  supposed  to  have  acquired  this 
peculiarity  by  browsing  on  grass  wet  with  the  same 
blood.  It  is  also  believed  that  at  Avarair  the  nightin- 
gales all  sing,  "Vartan,  Vartan!" 

The  Armenians,  according  to  their  own  histories 
and  traditions,  enjoyed  four  periods  of  national  inde- 
pendence, under  four  different  dynasties,  extending 
over  about  3,000  years.  The  ruins  of  Ani  and  other 
great  cities  still  testify  to  their  former  power  and 
splendor.  It  is  now  many  centuries,  however,  since 
they  lost  their  political  independence;  and  their 
country  has  been  little  more  than  a  battle-ground  for 
rival  invaders.  Armenia,  an  Asiatic  Poland,  was  long 
ago  divided  between  Russia,  Persia  and  Turkey. 

By  Article  61  of  the  Treaty  of  Berlin,  in  1878,  the 
Armenians  in  Turkey  were  placed  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  European  powers;  but  the  jealousy  of 
the  powers  among  themselves  has  prevented  any 
effective  protection  from  being  given.  There  were 
frightful  massacres  of  the  Armenians  in  1894-96  by 
order  of  the  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid.  In  1908,  the 
Armenians,  in  common  with  the  other  subject  na- 
tionalities in  Turkey,  enjoyed  a  brief  time  of  sunshine 
when  constitutional  government  was  proclaimed;  but 
the  old  oppressions  soon  began  again,  and  they  cul- 
minated in  the  unparalleled  cruellies  of  1915-16.  It 
is  not  necessary  here  to  go  into  the  harrowing  details; 
they  have  been  spread  broadcast  in  the  press. 

The  excuse  put  forward  by  the  Turks — the  claim 
that  there  was  a  dangerous  Armenian  revolution 
impending — was  a  mere  pretext.     Turkish  oppression 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

was  such  that  it  would  have  justified  a  revolution 
a  thousand  times  over,  if  there  had  been  any  chance 
of  success;  but  there  was  none.  The  Turks  knew  it; 
most  of  the  Armenians  knew  it;  and  therefore  the 
Patriarch  of  Constantinople  and  the  representative 
Armenians  in  Turkey  disapproved  of  the  revolutionary 
propaganda  that  was  carried  on  by  some  of  the  younger 
men,  mainly  in  America  and  Europe.  Only  a  handful 
of  the  Armenians  in  Turkey  had  anything  to  do  with 
it.  And  this  was  made  the  pretext  for  giving  the 
men  of  a  whole  nation  over  to  slaughter,  and  the 
women  to  outrage  and  starvation! 

It  was  no  outburst  of  popular  fanaticism,  but  a 
coldly  premeditated  crime,  carried  out  by  orders 
from  Constantinople,  ruthlessly  and  systematically,  as 
a  political  measure.  In  the  midst  of  the  massacre, 
when  a  Red  Cross  nurse  begged  a  high  Turkish 
official  to  spare  the  children,  his  answer  was,  "Women 
have  no  business  to  meddle  in  politics!" 

And  what  kind  of  people  were  thus  given  over  to 
destruction?  Dr.  James  L.  Barton,  secretary  of  the 
American  Board  of  Foreign  Missions,  and  former 
president  of  Euphrates  College  in  Turkey,  says: 

"I  know  the  Armenians  to  be,  by  inheritance,  re- 
ligious, industrious  and  faithful.  They  are  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  of  Eastern  Turkey.  They  are  not  inferior  in 
mental  abihty  to  any  race  on  earth.  I  say  this  after 
eight  years'  connection  with  Euphrates  College,  which 
has  continually  from  550  to  62-;  Armenians  upon  its 
list  of  students,  and  after  superintending  schools  which 
have  4,000  more  of  them." 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

The  Hon.  Andrew  D.  White  says:  "It  is  one  of  the 
finest  races  in  the  world,  physically,  morally  and 
intellectually.  If  I  were  asked  to  name  the  most 
desirable  races  to  be  added  by  immigration  to  the 
American  population,  I  would  name  among  the  very 
first  the  Armenian." 

Lord  Bryce  says:  "They  are  a  strong  race,  not  only 
with  vigorous  nerves  and  sinews,  physically  active  and 
energetic,  but  also  of  conspicuous  brain  power.  Among 
all  those  who  dwell  in  Western  Asia  they  stand  first,  with 
a  capacity  for  intellectual  and  moral  progress,  as  weU  as 
with  a  natural  tenacity  of  will  and  purpose,  beyond 
that  of  all  their  neighbors — not  merely  of  Turks, 
Tartars,  Kurds  and  Persians,  but  also  of  Russians. 

"Thus  they  have  held  a  very  important  place 
among  the  inhabitants  of  Western  Asia  ever  since  the 
sixth  century.  If  you  look  into  the  annals  of  the 
East  Roman  or  B^^zantine  Empire,  you  will  find  that 
most  of  the  men  who  rose  to  eminence  in  its  service 
as  generals  or  statesmen  during  the  early  middle 
ages  were  of  Armenian  stock.  So  was  it  also  after  the 
establishment  of  the  Turkish  dominion  in  Europe. 
Many  of  the  ablest  men  in  the  Turkish  service  have 
been  Armenians  by  birth  or  extraction.  The  same  is 
true  of  the  Russian  service." 

Lamartine  calls  the  Armenians  "the  Swiss  of  the 
East."    Dulaurier  compares  them  to  the  Dutch. 

Mrs.  Isabella  Bird  Bishop,  the  famous  traveler, 
says:  "They  are  the  most  capable,  energetic,  enter- 
prising and  pushing  race  in  Western  Asia,  physically 
superior  and  intellectually  acute,  and,  above  all, 
they  are  a  race  which  can  be  raised  in  all  respects 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

to  our  own  level.  .  .  .  Their  shrewdness  and  apti- 
tude for  business  are  remarkable,  and  whatever  exists 
of  commercial  enterprise  in  Asia  Minor  is  almost 
altogether  in  their  hands." 

After  teaching  among  them  for  thirty-five  years, 
Dr.  Cyrus  Hamlin  wrote:  "The  Armenians  are  a 
noble  race."  Dr.  Grace  N.  Kimball,  who  lived  for 
years  in  the  heart  of  Armenia,  calls  them  "a  race  full 
of  enterprise  and  the  spirit  of  advancement,  much 
like  ourselves  in  characteristics,  and  full  of  possibili- 
ties of  every  kind."  So  says  the  Rev.  Frederick  D. 
Greene,  who  was  born  and  brought  up  among  them. 

Miss  Florence  E.  Fensham,  Dean  for  years  of  the 
American  College  for  Girls  at  Constantinople,  told  me 
that  she  had  found  the  Armenian  girls  among 
her  students  not  only  able,  but  very  faithful  and 
trustworthy. 

H.  F.  B.  Lynch  says:  "The  Armenian  people 
may  be  included  in  the  small  number  of  races  who  have 
shown   themselves   capable    of   the   highest   culture." 

Speaking  of  the  importance  of  spreading  Western 
progressive  ideas  in  the  East,  he  says: 

"In  the  Armenians  we  have  a  people  who  are  pecul- 
iarly adapted  to  be  the  intermediaries  of  the  new 
dispensation.  They  profess  our  religion,  are  familiar 
with  some  of  our  best  ideals,  and  assimilate  each  new 
product  of  European  culture  with  an  avidity  and 
thoroughness  which  no  other  race  between  India  and 
the  Mediterranean  has  given  any  evidence  of  being 
able  to  rival.  These  capacities  they  have  made 
manifest  under  the  greatest  disadvantages.   .    .    . 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

"If  I  were  asked  what  characteristics  distinguish 
the  Armenians  from  other  Orientals,  I  should  be  dis- 
posed to  lay  most  stress  on  a  quality  known  in  popular 
speech  as  grit.  It  is  this  quality  to  which  they  owe 
their  preservation  as  a  people,  and  they  are  not  sur- 
passed in  this  respect  by  any  European  nation.  Their 
intellectual  capacities  are  supported  by  a  solid  founda- 
tion of  character,  and,  unlike  the  Greeks,  but  like  the 
Germans,  their  nature  is  averse  to  superficial  methods; 
they  become  absorbed  in  their  tasks  and  plumb  them 
deep.  .  .  .  These  tendencies  are  naturally  accom- 
panied by  forethought  and  balance;  and  they  have 
given  the  Armenian  his  pre-eminence  in  commercial 
affairs.  He  is  not  less  clever  than  the  Greek;  but  he 
sees  farther." 

Rev.  Edwin  M.  Bliss  says,  with  truth:  "Those  who 
know  the  race  most  widely  and  most  intimately  esteem 
it  the  most  highly." 

Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  who  was  president  of  the 
Friends  of  Armenia,  wrote: 

"Some  Americans  have  been  prejudiced  against 
Armenians  by  contact  with  the  demoralized  Armenians 
of  Constantinople.  But  in  Constantinople  corrup- 
tion extends  to  all  nationalities.  Ubicini  draws  a  very 
just  distinction  between  the  Armenians  of  Con- 
stantinople and  the  Levantine  ports  and  the  Arme- 
nians of  Tauris  or  Erzcrum,  the  cradle  of  the  race, 
where  the  independent  and  chivalrous  character 
of  the  people  has  remained  comparatively  little  changed 
by  the  lapse  of  ages.  The  contrast  is  as  great  as  be- 
tween the  enervated  Greeks  of  Phanar  and  the  hardy 
Greek  mountaineers  of  Epirus  and  Macedonia.     The 


xii  INTRODUCTION . 

bulk  of  the  Armenians  are  primitive  and  hard-working 
agriculturists,  living  in  the  interior,  and  what  Lord 
Byron  said  of  them  years  ago  holds  good  to-day:  'It 
would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  annals  of  a 
nation  less  crime  than  in  those  of  this  people,  whose 
virtues  are  those  of  peace,  and  whose  vices  are  the 
result  of  the  oppression  it  has  undergone.'" 

When  the  recent  terrible  events  began,  the  Arme- 
nians who  could  fled  over  the  frontier.  Refugees  by 
hundreds  of  thousands  are  crowded  together  in  Rus- 
sia, in  Egypt,  in  Greece,  destitute  of  everything,  and 
perishing  like  flies.  The  need  is  desperate,  and  on  a 
colossal  scale.  Contributions  for  the  relief  fund 
should  be  sent  to  Charles  R.  Crane,  70  Fifth  Avenue, 
New  York  City. 


ARMENIAN    POEMS. 


LITTLE   LAKE. 

Bedros  ToukiAN,  the  son  of  an  Armenian  blacksmith  of 
Scutari,  was  born  in  1851.  He  lived  in  great  poverty,  and  died 
of  consumption  in  1872.  He  left  a  number  of  dramas  and 
poems  that  enjoy  a  great  popularity  among  his  countrymen. 

HY  dost  thou  lie  in  hushed  surprise, 
Thou  httle  lonely  mere  ? 
Did  some  fair  woman  wistfully 
Gaze  in  thy  mirror  clear? 

Or  are  thy  waters  calm  and  still 

Admiring  the  blue  sky, 
Where  shining  cloudlets,  like  thy  foam, 

Are  drifting  softly  by  ? 

Sad  little  lake,  let  us  be  friends ! 

I  too  am  desolate  ; 
I  too  would  fain,  beneath  the  sky, 

In  silence  meditate. 


14  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

As  many  thoughts  are  in  my  mind 
As  wavelets  o'er  thee  roam  ; 

As  many  wounds  are  in  my  heart 
As  thou  hast  flakes  of  foam. 


But  if  heaven's  constellations  all 
Should  drop  into  thy  breast, 

Thou  still  wouldst  not  be  like  my  soul, 
A  flame-sea  without  rest. 


There,  when  the  air  and  thou  are  calm, 
The  clouds  let  fall  no  showers ; 

The  stars  that  rise  there  do  not  set/ 
And  fadeless  are  the  flowers. 


Thou  art  my  queen,  O  little  lake  ! 

For  e'en  when  ripples  thrill 
Thy  surface,  in  thy  quivering  depths 

Thou  hold'st  me,  trembling,  still. 

Full  many  have  rejected  me  : 

"  What  has  he  but  his  lyre  ?  " 
"  He  trembles,  and  his  face  is  pale  ; 

His  life  must  soon  expire  ! " 

None  said,  "  Poor  child,  why  pines  he  thus  .'' 

If  he  beloved  should  be, 
Haply  he  might  not  die,  but  live,  — 

Live,  and  grow  fair  to  see." 


LITTLE  LAKE. 


15 


None  sought  the  boy's  sad  heart  to  read, 

Nor  in  its  depths  to  look. 
They  would  have  found  it  was  a  fire, 

And  not  a  printed  book  ! 


Nay,  ashes  now  !  a  memory  ! 

Grow  stormy,  httle  mere, 
For  a  despairing  man  has  gazed 

Into  thy  waters  clear  ! 


l6  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


WISHES    FOR  ARMENIA. 

HEN  bright  dews  fall  on  leaf  and  flower, 

And  stars  light  up  the  skies, 
Then  tears  and  sparks  commingled 
Burst  forth  from  my  dim  eyes. 
Forget  thee,  O  Armenia  I 

Nay,  rather  may  I  be 
Transformed  into  a  cypress  dark. 
And  so  give  shade  to  thee  ! 

The  starry  sky  no  comfort  brings  : 

To  me  it  seems  a  veil 
Strewn  with  the  tears  that  Ararat 

Sheds  from  his  summit  pale. 
O  graves  !  O  ruins  !  to  my  soul 

Your  memory  is  as  dear 
As  to  the  lover's  thirsting  heart 

The  maiden's  first  love-tear. 
And  shall  my  spirit  after  death 

Oblivious  be  of  you  ? 
Nay,  but  become  a  flood  of  tears. 

And  cover  you  with  dew ! 

Not  sword  nor  chains,  abysses  deep 

Nor  precipices  fell, 
Not  thunder's  roll,  nor  lightning's  flash, 

Nor  funeral  torch  and  knell  — 


WISHES  FOR  ARMENIA. 

Not  all  of  these,  'neath  death's  dark  stone 

Can  ever  hide  from  me 
The  glowing  memories  of  the  past, 

Our  days  of  liberty. 
Forget  you  ?     Ne'er  will  I  forget, 

O  glorious  days  of  yore  ! 
Rather  may  I  be  changed  to  fire 

And  bring  you  back  once  more  ! 


When  twinkle  pale  the  stars  at  dawn, 

When  dewy  buds  unclose, 
And  tenderly  the  nightingale 

Is  singing  to  the  rose, 
All  Nature's  harmonies,  alas  1 

Can  ne'er  give  back  to  me 
The  sighs  that  sound  where  cypress  boughs 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea. 
Forget  you,  black  and  bitter  days? 

No,  never  !  but  instead 
Rather  may  I  be  turned  to  blood, 

And  make  your  darkness  red  ! 


Armenia's  mountains  dark  may  smile, 

Siberia's  ice  may  smoke, 
But  stern,  unbending  spirits  still 

Press  on  my  neck  the  yoke. 
Inflexible  and  cold  are  they ; 

When  feeling  surges  high, 
And  I  would  speak,  they  stifle  down 

My  free  soul's  bitter  cry. 


«7 


1 8  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Forget  thee,  justice  ?     Never  ! 

But  ere  my  life  departs, 
Rather  may  I  become  a  sword, 

And  make  thee  pierce  men's  hearts! 

When  e'en  the  rich  man  and  the  priest 

A  patriot's  ardor  feel. 
And  when  Armenian  hearts  at  length 

Are  stirred  with  love  and  zeal  — 
When  free-souled  sons  Armenia  bears, 

These  days  of  coldness  past, 
And  fires  of  love  and  brotherhood 

Are  lighted  up  at  last  — 
Shall  I  forget  thee  then,  my  lyre  ? 

Ah,  no  !  but  when  I  die 
Rather  may  I  become  thy  voice, 

And  o'er  Armenia  sigh  ! 


h: 


TO  LOVE. 


19 


TO   LOVE. 

GALAXY  of  glances  bright, 
A  sweet  bouquet  of  smiles, 

A  crucible  of  melting  words 

Bewitched  me  with  their  wiles  ! 


I  wished  to  live  retired,  to  love 

The  flowers  and  bosky  glades, 
The  blue  sky's  lights,  the  dew  of  morn, 

The  evening's  mists  and  shades  ; 

To  scan  my  destiny's  dark  page,  / 

In  thought  my  hours  employ, 
And  dwell  in  meditation  deep 

And  visionary  joy. 

Then  near  me  stirred  a  breath  that  seemed 

A  waft  of  Eden's  air. 
The  rustle  of  a  maiden's  robe, 

A  tress  of  shining  hair. 

I  sought  to  make  a  comrade  dear 

Of  the  transparent  brook. 
It  holds  no  trace  of  memory  ; 

When  in  its  depths  I  look. 


so  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

I  find  there  floating,  clear  and  pale, 
My  face  !     Its  waters  hold 

No  other  secret  in  their  breast 
Than  wavelets  manifold. 


I  heard  a  heart's  ethereal  throb ; 

It  whispered  tenderly  : 
*•  Dost  thou  desire  a  heart  ?  "  it  said. 

"  Beloved,  come  to  nie  !  " 

I  wished  to  love  the  zephyr  soft 
That  breathes  o'er  fields  of  bloom  ; 

It  woundeth  none,  —  a  gentle  soul 
Whose  secret  is  perfume. 

So  sweet  it  is,  it  has  the  power 
To  nurse  a  myriad  dreams  ; 

To  mournful  spirits,  like  the  scent 
Of  paradise  it  seems. 

Then  from  a  sheaf  of  glowing  flames 

To  me  a  whisper  stole  : 
It  murmured  low,  "  Dost  thou  desire 

To  worship  a  pure  soul?" 

I  wished  tft  make  the  lyre  alone 
My  heart's  companion  still. 

To  know  it  as  a  loving  friend. 
And  guide  its  chords  at  will. 


TO  LOVE. 

But  she  drew  near  me,  and  I  heard 

A  whisper  soft  and  low: 
"Thy  lyre  is  a  cold  heart,"  she  said, 

"Thy  love  is  only  woe." 

My  spirit  recognized  her  then; 

She  beauty  was,  and  fire, 
Pure  as  the  stream,  kind  as  the  breeze, 

And  faithful  as  the  lyre. 

My  soul,  that  from  the  path  had  erred, 
Spread  wide  its  wings  to  soar, 

And  bade  the  life  of  solitude 
Farewell  forevermore. 

A  galaxy  of  glances  bright, 

A  sweet  bouquet  of  smiles, 
A  crucible  of  melting  words 

Bewitched  me  with  their  wiles  I 


at  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


NEW  DARK  DAYS. 


11 


J  HE  centuries  of  bloodshed 
Sy  Hi        Are  past,  those  cruel  years  ; 
BkSj,  But  there  is  still  one  country 

Whose  mountains  drip  with  tears. 
Whose  river-banks  are  blood-stained. 

Whose  mourning  loads  the  breeze, — 
A  land  of  dreary  ruins, 
Ashes,  and  cypress-trees. 

No  more  for  the  Armenian 

A  twinkling  star  appears  ; 
His  spirit's  flowers  have  faded 

Beneath  a  rain  of  tears. 
Ceased  are  the  sounds  of  harmless  mirth. 

The  dances  hand  in  hand  ; 
Only  the  weapon  of  the  Koord 

Shines  freely  through  the  land. 

The  bride's  soft  eyes  are  tearful. 

Behind  her  tresses'  flow, 
Lest  the  Koord's  shout  should  interrupt 

Love's  whisper,  sweet  and  low. 
Red  blood  succeeds  love's  rosy  flush  ; 

Slain  shall  the  bridegroom  be, 
And  by  the  dastard  Koords  the  bride 

Be  led  to  slavery. 


NE  W  DARK  DA  YS. 

The  peasant  sows,  but  never  reaps ; 

He  hungers  evermore ; 
He  eats  his  bread  in  bitterness, 

And  tastes  of  anguish  sore. 
Lo  !  tears  and  blood  together 

Drop  from  his  pallid  face ; 
And  these  are  our  own  brothers, 

Of  our  own  blood  and  race  ! 

The  forehead  pure,  the  sacred  veil 

Of  the  Armenian  maid, 
Shall  rude  hands  touch,  and  hell's  hot  breath 

Her  innocence  invade? 
They  do  it  as  men  crush  a  flov^er, 

By  no  compunction  stirred  ; 
They  slaughter  an  Armenian 

As  they  would  kill  a  bird. 

O  roots  of  vengeance,  heroes'  bones. 

Who  fell  of  old  in  fight, 
Have  ye  all  crumbled  into  dust, 

Nor  sent  one  shoot  to  light? 
Oh,  of  that  eagle  nation 

Now  trampled  by  the  Koord, 
Is  nothing  left  but  black-hued  crows, 

And  moles  with  eyes  obscured  ? 

Give  back  our  sisters'  roses, 

Our  brothers  who  have  died. 
The  crosses  of  our  churches, 

Our  nation's  peace  and  pride  ! 


23 


24  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

O  Sultan,  we  demand  of  thee 
And  with  our  hearts  entreat  — 

Give  us  protection  from  the  Koord, 
Or  arms  his  arms  to  meet !  ^ 


WHAT  ARE    YOU,  LOVE  i  25 


WHAT  ARE   YOU,    LOVE? 

HAT  are  you,  love?     A  flame  from  heaven? 
A  radiant  smile  are  you  ? 
The  heaven  has  not  your  eyes'  bright  gleams, 
The  heaven  has  not  their  blue. 

The  rose  has  not  yoyr  snowy  breast ; 

In  the  moon's  face  we  seek 
In  vain  the  rosy  flush  that  dyes 

Your  soft  and  blushing  cheek. 

By  night  you  smile  upon  the  stars, 

And  on  the  amorous  moon, 
By  day  upon  the  waves,  the  flowers  — 

Why  not  on  one  alone  ? 

But,  though  I  pray  to  you  with  tears, 

With  tears  and  bitter  sighs, 
You  will  not  deign  me  yet  one  glance 

Cast  by  your  shining  eyes. 

O  love,  are  you  a  mortal  maid, 

Or  angel  formed  of  light  ? 
The  spring  rose  and  the  radiant  moon 

Envy  your  beauty  bright ; 


26  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

And  when  your  sweet  and  thrilling  voice 

Is  heard  upon  the  air, 
In  cypress  depths  the  nightingale 

Is  silent  in  despair. 

Would  I,  a  zephyr,  might  caress 
Your  bright  brow's  dreams  in  sleep, 

Breathe  gently  on  your  lips,  and  dry 
Your  tears,  if  you  should  weep  ! 

Or  would  that  in  your  garden  fair 

A  weeping  rose  I  grew  ; 
And  when  you  came  resplendent  there 

At  morning  with  the  dew, 


I  'd  give  fresh  color  to  your  cheek 
That  makes  the  rose  look  pale. 

Shed  on  your  breast  my  dew,  and  there 
My  latest  breath  exhale. 

Oh,  would  I  were  a  limpid  brook! 

If  softly  you  drew  nigh, 
And  smiled  into  my  mirror  clear, 

My  blue  waves  would  run  dry. 

Oh,  would  I  were  a  sunbeam  bright, 
'1  o  make  you  seem  more  fair, 

Touching  your  face,  and  dying  soon 
Amid  your  fragrant  hair  ! 


WHAT  ARE    YOU,   LOVE?  27 

But,  if  you  love  another, 

His  gravestone  may  I  be  ! 
Then  you  would  linger  near  me, 

Your  tears  would  fall  on  me  ; 

Your  sighs  would  wander  o'er  me, 

Sighs  for  his  early  doom. 
To  touch  you,  O  beloved, 

1  must  become  a  tomb  ! 


I 


28  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


I    HAVE   LOVED  THEE. 

T  was  the  hour  of  dew  and  light ; 
In  heaven  a  conflagration  cold 
Of  roses  burned,  instead  of  clouds  ; 
There  was  a  rain  of  pearls  and  gold. 


Then  deep  within  a  flowering  grove 
I  saw  thee,  love,  reclined  at  ease, 

And  thou  wast  languishing  and  pale, 
And  sighing  like  a  summer  breeze, 

Plucking  a  blossom's  leaves  apart 
With  fingers  fair  as  lilies  are  ; 

Thine  eyes,  the  temples  of  love's  fire, 
Were  fixed  upon  the  heavens  afar. 

I  marvelled  that  thy  fingers  soft, 

Wherein  the  haughty  rose  was  pressed, 

Had  power  to  pluck  her  leaves  away 
And  scatter  them  upon  thy  breast. 

A  strange  new  heaven  shone  within 
Thine  eyes,  so  dark  and  languishing; 

A  heaven  where,  instead  of  stars, 
Arrows  of  fire  were  glittering. 


/  HAVE  LOVED    7'HKK. 

Ah,  thou  hast  made  of  me  a  slave 

To  one  bright  glance,  one  word  of  thine  I 

The  rays  thy  soul  sheds,  cruel  maid, 
Become  as  fetters  laid  on  mine. 

Oh,  leave  my  heart,  from  me  depart  ! 

I  for  my  queen  desire  not  thee  ; 
Thy  breast  is  like  the  rose's  leaf, 

Thy  heart  as  granite  hard  to  me. 

Thou  knowest  naught,  thou  fragrant  one, 
Save  wounds  in  tender  hearts  to  make, 

Happy  when  thine  adorer's  breast 
Bleeds  in  profusion  for  thy  sake. 

When,  lonely  in  a  g:-ove's  deep  shade, 
I  weep,  and  all  my  sad  heart  grieves, 

Lo,  thou  art  there  !  Thou  tindest  me. 
Thou  speakest  to  me  through  the  leaves. 

When  in  the  swift  and  shining  stream 

I  seek  oblivion  of  thy  face, 
Thou  findest  me,  and  from  the  waves 

Thou  smilest  up  with  witching  grace. 

When  to  the  rocks  and  mountains  steep 
To  break  my  heart  and  lyre  I  flee. 

Thou  murmurest  ever  in  the  wind 
That  thou  hadst  never  love  for  nie. 

I  will  embrace  the  frozen  earth. 

And  hide  from  thee  in  dreamless  sleep. 

The  dark  grave  is  a  virgin  too  : 
Is  any  other  heart  so  deep  ? 


29 


so 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


IN    MEMORIAM    OF   VARTAN    LUTFIAN. 

|UR  two  devoted  hearts  were  joined  and  bound 
By  streaming  rays,  with  heaven's  own  light 
aglow ; 
We  read  each  other's  souls  like  open  books, 

Where  'neath  each  word  lay  depths  of  love  and  woe. 

Dost  thou  remember,  on  Mount  Chamlaja, 

In  the  dark  cypress  shade  where  mourners  sigh, 

tlow  we  two  mused,  and  watched  the  Bosphorus, 
Stamboul's  blue  girdle,  and  the  cloudless  sky? 

We  sat  in  silence  ;  any  uttered  word 

Would  but  have  marred  our  souls'  infinity. 

There  like  two  flames  we  burned  without  a  sound, 
And  slione  upon  each  other,  pale  to  see. 

Like  sad  black  motlis  that  haunt  the  cypresses, 
Our  souls  drank  in  the  shadow  and  the  gloom, 

1  )rank  endless  sorrow,  drank  the  dark-hued  milk 
Of  hopelessness  and  of  the  silent  tomb. 

I  )eeply  we  drank,  and  long  ;  but  thou  didst  drain 
The  darksome  cu]i  that  to  thy  lips  was  given. 

rill  thou  wast  drunken  with  it,  and  i)ecame 
Thenceforth  a  pale  and  silent  son  of  lu-aven. 


31 


/.\-  M  F.MORI  AM  OF    J'ARFAjV  LrFFJAiY. 

Thy  paleness  grieved  my  soul ;  thy  last  faint  look, 
Turned  on  me  ere  thy  spirit  did  depart, 

Has  fixed  forevermore,  O  friend  beloved, 
The  memory  of  thee  in  my  aching  heart. 

Oh,  art  thou  happy  or  unhappy  there? 

Send  me  a  message  by  an  angel's  wing  ! 
Tedious,  alas  !  and  weary  is  this  world, 

Mother  of  griefs  and  bitter  sorrowing. 

1  f  in  that  world  there  is  a  shady  tree, 

.\nd  a  clear  i)rook  that  softly  murmurs  near  ; 

If  there  are  found  affection  and  pure  love, 

If  the  soul  breathes  a  free,  fresh  atmosphere  — 

This  very  day  would  I  put  off  this  life. 

This  poor  soiled  garment  should  to  dust  return. 
Ah.  Vartan,  answer !     In  the  unknown  land, 

Say,  hast  thou  found  the  things  for  which  I  yearn? 


4^ 


32 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


S  HE. 

ERE  not  the  rose's  hue  hke  that  which  glows 
On  her  soft  cheek,  who  would  esteem  the 
rose  ? 


Were  not  the  tints  of  heaven  like  those  that  lie 
In  her  blue  eyes,  whose  gaze  would  seek  the  sky  ? 

Were  not  the  maiden  innocent  and  fair, 

How  would  men  learn  to  turn  to  God  in  prayer? 


^ 


LITTLE   GIFTS.  t^^ 


LiriLE   GIFTS. 

HE  was  alone.     1  brought  a  gift  — 
A  rose,  surpassing  fair  ; 
And  when  she  took  it  from  my  hand 
She  blushed  with  pleasure  there. 


Compared  with  her,  how  poor  and  pale 
The  red  rose  seemed  to  be  ! 

My  gift  was  nothing  to  the  kiss 
My  lady  ga\  e  to  me. 


34 


ARME.VJAN  POEM^. 


MY   GRIEF. 


O  thirst  with  sacred  longings, 
And  find  the  springs  all  dry, 
i  And  in  my  flower  to  fade.  —  not  this 
The  grief  for  which  I  sigh. 


Ere  yet  my  cold,  pale  brow  has  been 
Warmed  by  an  ardent  kiss, 

To  rest  it  on  a  couch  of  earth.  — 
My  sorrow  is  not  this. 

Ere  I  embrace  a  live  bouquet 

Of  beauty,  smiles  and  fire, 
The  cold  grave  to  embrace.  —  not  this 

Can  bitter  grief  inspire. 

Ere  a  sweet,  dreamful  sleep  has  lulled 

My  tempest-beaten  brain. 
To  slumber  in  an  earthy  bed.  — 

.'\h,  this  is  not  my  pain. 

My  country  is  forlorn,  a  branch 
Withered  on  life's  great  tree  ; 

To  die  unknown,  ere  succoring  her, — 
This  onlv  yrieveth  me  ! 


COMPLAINTS. 


35 


COMPLAINTS. 

This  poem  and  the  next  were  written    on  successive  days,  a 
short  time  before  Tourian's  death. 


AREVVELL  to  thee,  O  God,  to  thee,  O  .sun. 
Ye  twain  that  shine  above  my  soul  on  high  ! 
My  spirit  from  the  earth  must  pass  away ; 
I  go  to  add  a  star  to  yonder  sky. 


What  are  the  stars  but  curses  of  sad  souls, — 
Souls  guiltless,  but  ill-fated,  that  take  flight 
To  burn  the  brow  of  heaven  ?     They  only  serve 
To  make  more  strong  the  fiery  armor  bright 

Of  God.  the  source  of  lightnings  !     But,  ah  me  ! 
What  words  are  these  I  speak?     With  thunder  smite, 
O  God,  and  shatter  the  presumptuous  thoughts 
That  fill  me,  —  giant  thoughts  and  infinite, 

Thoughts  of  an  atom  in  th\-  universe. 
Whose  spirit  dares  defy  its  mortal  bars, 
And  seeks  to  dive  into  the  depth  of  heaven. 
And  climb  the  endless  stairway  of  the  stars  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  God,  thou  Lord  of  trembling  man. 
Of  waves  and  flowers,  of  music  and  of  light ! 
Thou  who  hast  taken  from  my  brow  the  rose. 
And  from  my  soul  the  power  of  soaring  flight ; 


36  A  KM  EX /AX  POEMS. 

Thou  who  hast  spread  a  cloud  before  mine  eyes, 
And  given  these  deathly  flutterings  to  my  heart, 
And  bidd'st  me  smile  upon  thee  on  the  brink 
Of  the  dark  tomb,  to  which  I  must  depart ! 

Doubtless  thou  hast  for  me  a  future  life 
Of  boundless  light,  of  fragrance,  prayer,  and  praise  ; 
But;  if  my  last  breath  here  below  must  end 
Speechless  and  mute,  breathed  out  in  mist  and  liaze^ 

Ah,  then,  instead  of  any  heavenly  life 
To  greet  me  when  my  earthly  span  is  o'er. 
May  I  become  a  pallid  lightning  flash. 
Cling  to  thy  name,  and  thunder  evermore  ! 

Let  me  become  a  curse,  and  pierce  thy  side ! 
Yea,  let  me  call  thee  "  God  the  pitiless  !  " 
Ah  me,  I  tremble !  I  am  pale  as  death  ; 
My  heart  foams  like  a  hell  of  bitterness  ! 

I  am  a  sigh  that  moans  among  the  sad. 
Dark  cypresses,  —  a  withered  leaf  the  strife 
Of  autumn  winds  must  quickly  bear  away. 
Ah,  give  me  but  one  spark,  one  spark  of  life  ! 

What !  after  this  brief,  transitory  dream 

Must  I  embrace  for  aye  the  grave's  cold  gloom? 

0  God,  how  dark  a  destiny  is  mine  ! 

Was  it  writ  out  with  lees  from  the  black  tomb? 

Oh,  grant  my  soul  one  particle  of  fire  ! 

1  would  still  love,  would  live,  and  ever  live  I 
Stars,  drop  into  my  soul  I     .\  single  spark 
Of  life  to  your  ill-fated  lover  gi\e  I 


COMPLAINTS. 


37 


Spring  offers  not  one  rose  to  my  pale  brow, 
The  sunbeams  lend  me  not  one  smile  of  light. 
Night  is  my  bier,  the  stars  my  torches  are, 
The  moon  weeps  ever  in  the  depths  of  night. 

Some  men  there  are  with  none  to  weep  for  them  ; 
Therefore  God  made  the  moon.     In  shadows  dim 
Of  coming  death,  man  has  but  two  desires,  — 
First,  life ;  then  some  one  who  shall  mourn  for  him. 

In  vain  for  me  the  stars  have  written  "  Love,'' 
The  bulbul  taught  it  me  with  silver  tongue  ; 
In  vain  the  zephyrs  breathed  it,  and  in  vain 
My  image  in  the  clear  stream  showed  me  young. 

In  vain  the  groves  kept  silence  round  about, 
The  secret  leaves  forbore  to  breathe  or  stir 
Lest  they  should  break  my  reveries  divine  ; 
Ever  they  suffered  me  to  dream  of  her. 

In  vain  the  flowers,  dawn  of  the  spring,  breathed  forth 
Incense  to  my  heart's  altar,  from  the  sod. 
Alas,  they  all  have  mocked  me  !     All  the  world 
Is  nothing  but  the  mockery  of  God  ! 


38  ARM  EN  I A  A-  POEMS, 


REPENTANCE. 

ESTERDAY,  when  in  slumber  light  and  chill. 
Drenched  in  cold  sweats,  upon  my  couch 
I  lay, 

While  on  my  panting  cheeks  two  roses  burned 
And  on  my  brow  sat  mortal  pallor  gray,  — 

Then  on  my  soul,  athirst  for  love,  there  fell 
My  mother's  sobs,  who  wept  beside  my  bed. 

When  I  unclosed  my  dim  and  weary  eyes, 
I  saw  her  tears  of  pity  o'er  me  shed. 

I  felt  upon  my  face  my  mother's  kiss, 

A  sacred  last  remembrance,  on  death's  shore  ; 

All  her  great  sorrow  in  that  kiss  was  breatlied  — 
And  it  was  I  who  caused  her  anguish  sore  I 

Ah,  then  a  tempest  rose  and  shook  my  soul, 
A  storm  of  bitter  grief,  that  blasts  and  sears ; 

Then  I  poured  forth  that  torrent  dark.     My  God, 
Forgive  me  I  I  had  seen  my  mother's  tears. 


^ 


LIBERTY. 


39 


LIBERTY. 

Michael  Ghazari.vn  Nalbandian  was  born  in  Russian 
Armenia  in  1830;  graduated  at  the  University  of  St.  Peters- 
burg with  the  title  of  Professor ;  was  active  as  a  teacher, 
author,  and  journalist ;  fell  under  suspicion  for  his  political 
opinions,  and  underwent  a  rigorous  imprisonment  of  three 
years,  after  which  he  was  exiled  to  the  province  of  Sarakov, 
and  died  there  in  1866  of  lung  disease  contracted  in  prison. 
It  is  forbidden  in  Russia  to  possess  a  picture  of  Nalbandian  : 
but  portraits  of  him,  with  his  poem  on  "  Liberty  "  printed 
around  the  margin,  are  circulated  secretly. 

HEN  God,  who  is  forever  free, 

Breathed  Hfe  into  my  earthly  frame,  — 
From  that  first  day,  by  His  free  will 
When  I  a  living  soul  became,  — 
A  babe  upon  my  mother's  breast, 

Ere  power  of  speech  was  given  to  me. 
Even  then  I  stretched  my  feeble  arms 
Forth  to  embrace  thee,  Liberty  ! 

Wrapped  round  with  many  swaddling  bands, 

All  night  I  did  not  cease  to  weep, 
And  in  the  cradle,  restless  still, 

My  cries  disturbed  my  mother's  sleep. 
"  O  mother  !  "  in  my  heart  I  prayed, 

"  Unbind  my  arms  and  leave  me  free  I  " 
And  even  from  that  hour  I  vowed 

To  love  thee  ever.  Liberty  ! 


40  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

When  first  my  faltering  tongue  was  freed, 

And  when  my  parents'  hearts  were  stirred 
With  thrilling  joy,  to  hear  their  son 

Pronounce  his  first  clear- spoken  word, 
"  Papa,  Mamma,"  as  children  use. 

Were  not  the  names  first  said  by  me  ; 
The  first  word  on  my  childish  lips 

Was  thy  great  name,  O  Liberty  ! 

"  Liberty  !  "  answered  from  on  high 

The  sovereign  voice  of  Destiny  : 
"  Wilt  thou  enroll  thyself  henceforth 

A  soldier  true  of  Liberty  ? 
The  path  is  thorny  all  the  way. 

And  many  trials  wait  for  thee  ; 
Too  strait  and  narrow  is  this  world 

For  him  who  loveth  Liberty."' 

"  Freedom  !  "  I  answered,  "  on  my  head 

Let  fire  descend  and  thunder  burst ; 
Let  foes  against  my  life  conspire, 

Let  all  who  hate  thee  do  their  worst : 
I  will  be  true  to  thee  till  death  ; 

Yea,  even  upon  the  gallows  tree 
The  last  breath  of  a  death  of  shame 

Shall  shout  thv  name,  O  Liberty  ! " 


^ 


DAYS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


41 


DAYS    OF   CHILDHOOD. 

AYS  of  my  childhood,  like  a  dream 
Ye  fleeted,  to  return  no  more. 
Ah,  happy  days  and  free  from  care, 
Ye  brought  but  joy  in  passing  o'er  ! 


Then  Science  came,  and  on  the  world 
He  gazed  with  grave,  observant  looks  ; 

All  things  were  analyzed  and  weighed, 
And  all  my  time  was  given  to  books. 

When  to  full  consciousness  I  woke, 

My  country's  woes  weighed  down  my  heart. 

Apollo  gave  me  then  his  lyre, 
To  bid  my  gloomy  cares  depart. 

Alas  !  that  lyre  beneath  my  touch 
Sent  forth  a  grave  and  tearful  voice, 

Sad  as  my  soul ;  no  single  chord 

Would  breathe  a  note  that  said  "  Rejoice  !  " 

Ah,  then  at  last  I  felt,  I  knew. 
There  never  could  be  joy  for  me, 

While  speechless,  sad,  in  alien  hands, 
My  country  languished  to  be  free. 


42  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Apollo,  take  thy  lyre  again, 

And  let  its  voice,  amid  the  groves, 

Sound  for  some  man  who  may  in  peace 
Devote  his  life  to  her  he  loves  I 

To  the  arena  I  will  go, 

But  not  with  lyre  and  flowery  phrase ; 
1  will  protest  and  cry  aloud, 

And  strive  with  darkness  all  my  davs. 

What  boots  to-day  a  mournful  lyre  ? 

To-day  we  need  the  sword  of  strife. 
Upon  the  foeman  sword  and  fire,  — 

Be  that  the  watchword  of  mv  life  ! 


Y" 


ARMENIA.  43 


ARMENIA. 

Archbishop  Khorene  Nar  Bey  de  Lusignan  was  a 
descendant  of  the  last  dynasty  of  Armenian  kings.  Nar 
Bey  studied  at  the  celebrated  convent  of  the  Mechitarists  in 
Venice,  but  early  left  the  Roman  Catholic  for  the  Armenian 
Church.  He  became  an  Archbishop,  and  was  elected  Patri- 
arch of  Constantinople,  but  declined  to  serve.  He  was  an 
eloquent  preacher,  and  a  distinguished  poet,  author,  and  lin- 
guist. Nar  Bey  was  a  friend  of  Lamartine,  whose  poems  he 
translated  into  Armenian.  He  was  one  of  the  Armenian  dele- 
gates to  the  Berlin  Congress  of  1878.  He  died  at  Constanti- 
nople in  1892,  poisoned,  it  was  commonly  believed,  by  the 
Turkish  government,  for  political  reasons. 


F  a  sceptre  of  diamond,  a  glittering  crown. 
Were  mine,  at  thy  feet  I  would  lay  them  both 
down, 
Queen   of  queens,  0  Armenia ! 


If  a  mantle  of  purple  were  given  to  me, 
A  mantle  for  kings,  I  would  wrap  it  round  thee, 
Poor  Armenia,  my  mother ! 

If  the  fire  of  my  youth  and  its  sinews  of  steel 
Could  return,  I  would  offer  its  rapture  and  zeal 
All  to  thee,  mv  Armenia! 


44 


ARMEIVIAN  POEMS. 


Had  a  lifetime  of  ages  been  granted  to  me, 
I  had  given  it  gladly  and  freely  to  thee, 
O  my  life,  my  Armenia  ! 

Were  I  offered  the  love  of  a  maid  lily-fair, 
I  would  choose  thee  alone  for  my  joy  and  my  care, 
My  one  love,  my  Armenia ! 

Were  I  given  a  crown  of  rich  pearls,  I  should  prize, 
Far  more  than  their  beauty,  one  tear  from  thine  eyes, 
O  my  weeping  Armenia  ! 

If  freedom  unbounded  were  proffered  to  me, 
I  would  choose  still  to  share  thy  sublime  sla\ery, 
O  my  mother.  Armenia  I 

Were  I  offered  proud  Europe,  to  take  or  refuse, 
Thee    alone,    with   thy  griefs  on  thy    head,   would    I 
choose 
For  my  country,  Armenia  ! 

Might  I  choose   from  the   world  where  my  dwelliuL; 

should  be, 
T  would  say,  Still  thy  ruins  are  Eden  to  me, 
My  belo\ed  Armenia  I 

Were  I  given  a  seraph's  celestial  lyre, 
I  would  sing  with  my  soul,  to  its  chords  of  pure  fire, 
Thy  dear  name,  my  .Armenia  ! 


WANDERING  ARMENIAN   TO    THE   CLOUD. 


45 


THE   WANDERING   ARMENIAN   TO   THK 
CLOUD. 


LOUD,  whither  dost  thou  liaste  away 
So  swiftly  through  the  air? 
Dost  thou  to  some  far-distant  land 
An  urgent  message  benr? 


With  gloomy  aspect,  dark  and  sad, 
Thou  tnovest  on  through  space  ; 

Dost  thou  hide  vengeance,  or  has  grief 
O'ershadowed  thy  bright  face  ? 

Did  a  wind  come  and  exile  thee 
Far  from  thy  heavenly  home, 

Like  me,  in  homesickness  and  tears 
Across  the  world  to  roam? 

Like  me,  who  wander  now,  my  griefs 

Sole  comrades  left  to  me, 
While,  longing  for  my  fatherland, 

I  pine  on  land  and  sea  ? 

Cloud,  when  thy  heart  is  full  of  tears 

Thou  hast  relief  in  rain  ; 
When  indignation  brims  thy  breast, 

Fierce  lightnings  tell  thy  pain. 


46  AH  MEN/ AN  POEMS. 

Though  my  heart  too  is  full,  my  brow 
With  painful  thoughts  oppressed. 

To  whom  can  I  pour  forth  the  griefs 
That  fill  an  exile's  breast  ? 

O  cloud,  thou  hast  no  native  land ! 

Far  happier  thou  than  I ; 
To  north,  to  south  thou  floatest  free. 

At  home  in  all  the  sky. 

But  I,  at  every  step,  shed  tears, 
In  sadness  and  in  gloom  ; 

Each  step  away  from  fatherland 
Is  nearer  to  mv  tomb! 


TO  MY  SJSTKR.  47 


TO   MY   SIS'rp:R. 

AIN  would  I  be  to  thee,  my  sister  sweet, 
Like  the  bright  cloud  beneath  Aurora's  feet. 
A  pedestal  to  help  thee  mount  on  high 
Into  the  blessed  peace  of  the  blue  sky. 

The  zephyr  would  I  be,  to  which  is  given 
To  waft  the  rose's  fragrance  up  to  heaven. 
That  thy  pure  soul,  amid  life's  stress  and  strain, 
Might  not  exhale  its  perfume  sweet  in  vain. 

Fain  would  I  be  to  thee  as  crystal  dew 
Of  morn,  that  doth  the  young  flower's  sap  renew. 
And  with  its  vapor  veils  her  from  the  svm. 
Lest  thy  fresh  heart  be  seared  ere  day  is  done. 

Fain  would  I  be  to  thee  a  nightingale, 

Telling  within  thine  ear  so  sweet  a  tale  ; 

No  meaner  strain  thine  eyes  with  sleep  should  dim. 

And  thou  shouldst  wake  to  hear  a  sacred  hymn. 

]'\ain  would  I  be  to  thee  a  broad-armed  tree 
That  casts  wide  shadow  on  the  sultry  lea. 
And  cheers  from  far  the  wandering  traveller's  view  ; 
So  would  my  love  shed  o'er  thee  shade  and  dew. 


48  AhWrF.X/AA'  POEMS. 

Fain  would  I  be  to  thee  a  refuge  sure. 

As  'neath  the  thatch  the  swallow  builds  secure. 

A  humble  roof,  it  yet  the  rain  can  ward  ; 

So  I  from  storms  thine  innocence  would  guard. 

Ah !  when  to  thee  this  world,  as  yet  unknown. 
Its  barren  hopes,  its  bitterness  hath  shown, 
I'^ain,  fain  would  I  bring  comfort  in  that  hour 
To  thy  sad  heart.     Oh,  would  1  had  the  power 


GENTLE   BREEZE   OF  ARMENIA. 


49 


GENTLE    BREEZE    OF   ARMENIA. 

HERE  art  thou,  sweet  and  gentle  breeze, 

Breeze  of  my  fatherland  ? 
The  spring  has  come,  and  tender  flowers 
Bud  forth  on  every  hand ; 
The  warm  sun  smiles  upon  the  world, 

The  skies  are  soft  and  blue  ; 
Ah,  zephyr  of  Armenia, 
Wilt  thou  not  greet  us  too  ? 

My  country's  stars  1  see  no  more 

Beneath  these  alien  skies, 
And  when  the  radiant  spring  returns, 

The  sad  tears  fill  my  eyes. 
The  sun  for  exiles  has  no  light, 

Though  soft  it  shine  and  l)land. 
Where  art  thou,  oh,  where  art  thou, 

Breeze  of  my  fatherland  ? 

Where  art  thou,  breeze  of  Ararat? 

Our  sad  hearts  long  for  thee. 
For  poplar  trees  of  Armavir 

That  whisper  pleasantly. 
Spring  in  whose  bosom  shines  no  Hower 

Sprung  from  Armenian  earth. 
To  the  Armenian  is  not  spring, 

But  winter's  cold  and  dearth. 

4 


so 


AA'MEA/AX  FOEMS. 

Behold,  all  Nature  calls  on  us, 

With  invitation  glad, 
To  celebrate  her  victory 

O'er  Winter,  dark  and  sad. 
The  ice  has  melted,  and  the  flowers 

Awaken  and  expand  ; 
Where  are  you,  breezes  sweet  and  soft, 

Airs  of  the  fatherland  ? 

(Jut  of  long,  gloomy  winters, 

The  winters  of  the  past, 
Oh,  blow  for  the  Armenians, 

And  bring  us  spring  at  last  ! 
Awake  exalted  memories 

Of  glorious  deeds  and  grand  ! 
Alas,  hast  thou  forgotten  us, 

Hree/e  of  the  fatherland  ? 

Hast  thou  forgot  our  tearful  eyes, 

Our  bleeding  hearts  that  ache  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  mingle  in  our  griefs. 

Lamenting  for  our  sake? 
Why  should  our  sad  lyre  sob  in  tears, 

In  bitter  tears  like  these, 
And  thou  not  come  to  thrill  its  chords, 

O  soft  Armenian  breeze? 

Oh,  from  o>ir  country's  ruins 

Waft  to  us  through  the  air 
I  )ust  of  our  glorious  ancestors, 

Whose  bones  are  buried  there  ! 


GENTLE  BREEZE   OF  ARMENIA. 

Life-giving  breeze,  Armenian  breeze 

From  distant  Edens  blown, 
Oh,  bring  to  us  our  fathers'  sighs, 

To  whisper  with  our  own ! 

One  token  bring  from  home,  one  drop 

From  the  Araxes'  shore  ! 
Let  tears  and  smiles  with  memories  blend  — 

Thoughts  of  our  sires  of  yore. 
Kiss  the  Armenian's  brow  and  breast ; 

Wake  patriot  ardor  bold  ! 
Where  art  thou,  O  life-bringing  breeze 

Our  sires  inhaled  of  old  ? 

Power  to  Armenian  cymbals  give, 

And  in  our  souls  inspire 
The  zeal  of  Coghtn's  ancient  bards, 

Their  fervor  and  their  fire  ! 
Imbue  Armenian  hearts  afresh 

With  courage  firm  and  true  ; 
Ah,  zephyr  of  Armenia, 

Awake  our  hope  anew  I 


51 


^ 


52  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


LET   US   LIVE   ARMENIANS. 


jlVE  as  Armenians,  brethren,  in  this  world  ! 
That  name  to  us  do  history's  pages  give  ; 
The  heavens  above  salute  us  by  that  name  : 
Then,  brethren,  as  Armenians  let  us  live  ! 

Armenians  we  !     That  hero  was  our  sire 

Who  taught  mankind  for  freedom  first  to  strive  ; ' 

He  gave  us  for  our  portion  a  great  name  : 
Then,  brethren,  as  Armenians  let  us  live  ! 

Our  land  is  holy ;  on  its  sacred  soil 

God  walked,  what  time  he  Adam  forth  did  drive  ;  '^ 
Our  language  he  devised  ;  he  spoke  it  first : 

Then,  brethren,  as  Armenians  let  us  live  j 

We  have  one  cradle  with  the  human  race; 

Our  land  salvation  to  the  world  did  give  ; 
Faith's  earliest  altar  was  Mount  Ararat : 

Then,  brethren,  as  Armenians  let  ns  live  ! 

'  According  to  tradition,  at  the  time  of  the  building  of  the 
tower  of  Babel,  Haig,  the  ancestor  of  the  Armenians,  rebelled 
against  the  tyranny  of  the  Assyrian  king,  and  forsook  the 
work  with  his  tribe.  The  constellation  Orion  is  called  by  his 
name  in  the  Armenian  language. 

-  Tradition  locates  the  Garden  of  Eden  in  Armenia,  between 
the  Euphrates  and  Tigris  :  and  the  Armenians  believe  that  their 
language  was  spoken  by  Adnni  .-nid  Eve. 


LET  US  LIVE  ARMENIANS.  53 

Noble  our  name  is  ;  not  on  earth  alone, 
But  in  the  heavens  it  shines  forth  gloriously. 

The  stars  of  valiant  Haig  are  deathless  there  : 
Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  ! 

Live  as  Armenians  !     From  the  past  what  land 
So  many  ancient  glories  doth  derive  ? 

What  nation  has  so  beautiful  a  home  ? 
Then,  brethren,  as  Armenians  let  us  live  ! 

Unto  what  nation  did  the  King  of  heaven 

Send  four  apostles  as  an  embassy,' 
And  with  what  monarch  did  he  correspond  '< 

Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  ! 

Who  can  count  o'er  the  names  of  all  our  saints? 

One  roll  of  martyrs  is  our  history ; 
Our  church  on  earth  is  like  to  heaven  itself : 

Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  ! 

To  us  was  Christ's  first  benediction  given  ; 

The  champions  of  the  faith  for  aye  were  we  ; 
Armenia's  deeds  astonished  earth  and  heaven  : 

Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  ! 

■    Our  nation,  ever  following  the  Lord. 

Has  borne  the  cross  for  many  a  cenlur}' ; 
iS^o,  she  will  not  be  a  deserter  now  ! 
Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  I 

'  The  tradition  is  that  Apgar,  King  of  Armenia,  sent  mes- 
sengers to  Jesus,  entreating  him  to  come  and  cure  the  king  of 
a  painful  malady,  and  offering  to  become  a  Christian.     Jesus 


54  AHMENIAN  FOKAia. 

Yes,  sorrowful  is  life  beneath  the  cross  ; 

Yes,  as  Arnjenians  we  with  pain  must  strive ; 
Yet  wears  the  cross  the  seal  of  victory  : 

Then,  brethren,  as  Armenians  let  us  live  ! 

Our  home  beloved,  our  sceptre  and  our  crown. 
With  clouds  are  covered  in  obscurity  : 

Have  hope  I  the  heavens  yet  shall  give  us  light : 
Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  ! 

No,  not  forever  shall  our  fate  be  sad, 

Our  lot,  to  eat  and  drink  of  misery ; 
A  new  and  happy  future  waits  for  us  ! 

Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  I 

Live  as  Armenians,  that  our  sons  as  well 
May  boast  that  they  are  our  posterity  ; 

Let  us  do  no  dishonor  to  our  name  ! 
Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  I 

Live  as  Armenians  !     Some  day,  over  death 

Armenia  yet  sliall  rise  in  victory. 
Soon  may  that  glad  day  dawn  for  us,  O  heaven  ! 

Brethren,  Armenians  let  us  ever  be  ! 

declined  to  come,  but  promised  to  send  some  of  his  apostles 
after  his  death  who  would  cure  the  king.  This  was  done  ;  and 
Apgar  and  many  of  his  subjects  embraced  Christianity. 


LET  US  DIE  ARMENIANS. 


55 


LET   US    DIE    ARMENIANS. 

ROTHERS,  we  have  no  hope  from  foreigners  ; 
Gaze  not  around  for   aid !    Though  with 
good-will 

The  foreigner  receive  you  as  a  guest, 
He  is  an  alien  still. 

Unmoved  he  sees  your  pain ;  what  matters  it 

Although  to  tears  of  blood  your  heart  be  grieved  ? 

None  save  Armenians  feel  Armenia's  woes  ; 
Why  are  you  still  deceived  ? 

Rest  not  upon  the  foreigner  your  hope  ; 

Show  not  hard  eyes  your  wounds,  your  deep  distress. 
Do  you  then  look  for  sympathy  and  help  ? 

They  mock  your  nakedness  ! 

Heavy  your  burden  is,  but  do  you  think 

That  foreign  hands  will  lift  it?     You  are  wrong. 

Nay,  leave  the  foreigner,  lend  brother's  arm 
To  brother,  and  be  strong  ! 

Fate  is  your  enemy  ?     Be  not  dismayed. 

But  show  Armenian  hearts,  to  brave  her  hate. 
Fate  cannot  vanquish  an  heroic  land 

That  battles  against  fate. 


^6  ARMENJAX  POEMS. 

Nor  swords  nor  chains  could  crush  the  minds  and  hearts 
Of  yotir  great  ancestors,  those  valiant  ones. 

Why  are  your  hearts  to-day  so  weak  and  faint? 
Are  you  not  heroes'  sons? 

Sons  of  those  matchless  heroes  who  of  old 
\}\>o\\  their  country's  altar  bled  and  died,  — 

Sons  of  those  great  Armenians  whose  lives 
To-day  are  the  world's  pride  ? 

Even  the  mighty  nations  of  the  earth 

With  envy  view  our  nation's  history  ; 
Then  why,  forgetting  your  ])ast  glory,  say 

To  aliens,  "  Blest  are  ye  "  ? 

Forward  !     Let  him  who  has  an  earnest  heart 
Forsake  the  stranger,  follow  his  brave  sires  ! 

'I'he  life  of  all  Amenians  centres  round 
Our  faith's  clear  altar-fires. 

Armenia's  life  shall  not  become  extinct : 

I'he  heavens  are  full  of  that  life-giving  flame. 
While  the  all-conquering  cross  of  Christ  shall  reign, 
So  long  shall  live  her  name. 

Whv  are  you  fearful  ?     Sec  you  not.  sublime 
Above  your  heads,  the  shadow  of  the  rood? 

Of  old  your  fathers  with  that  sacred  sign 
Mingled  their  sacred  blood. 

.Anchor  your  hope,  too,  on  the  cross !     Have  faith 
The  light  will  shine,  since  you  to  it  are  true. 

It  was  vmir  nation's  bulwark  ;  be  it  still 
We.ipon  nnd  flng  to  you  ! 


LET  US  DIE   ARMENIANS. 

A  nation  that  was  faithful  to  the  cross 
Cannot  be  lost,  though  centuries  roll  past. 

While  in  this  world  religion  shall  endure, 
Her  life  shall  also  last. 

In  the  great  names  of  faith  and  fatherland, 
Clasp  hands  in  love,  bid  hate  and  malice  flee, 

Armenian  brothers  1  Let  the  nation's  foe 
Alone  accursed  be. 

I-et  eacli  heart  glow  with  love  for  fatherland, 
Each  mind  your  country's  welfare  seek  alone  ; 

Let  your  least  brother's  pain  and  tears  be  felt 
As  keenly  as  your  own. 

Ah  !  foreign  bread  can  never  nourish  us, 
And  foreign  water  never  quench  our  thirst ; 

Thou  art  our  life,  Armenian  font,  where  we 
Received  baptism  first ! 

For  no  vain  hope  let  us  deny  that  font, 
Our  nation's  baptistery  !     When  we  yield 

Our  breath  forever,  be  our  place  of  death 
The  sacred  battlefield  ! 

Let  the  same  earth  receive  that  cradled  us ; 

Armenians  we,  when  life  to  us  was  given  ; 
Armenians  let  us  live,  Armenians  die, 

Armenians  enter  heaven  ! 


A^. 


57 


58 


ARME.XIAA  POEMS. 


THE    FIRST    GREEN    LEAVES. 

rCARCE  are  the  clouds"  black  shadows 
Pierced  by  a  gleam  of  light, 
Scarce  have  our  fields  grown  dark  again, 
Freed  from  the  snow-drifts  white. 
When  you,  with  smiles  all  twinkling. 

Bud  forth  o'er  hill  and  vale. 
O  first-born  leaves  of  spring-time, 
Hail  to  your  beauty,  hail ! 

Not  yet  to  our  cold  meadows 

Had  come  Spring's  guest,  the  swallow, 
Not  yet  the  nightingale's  sweet  voice 

Had  echoed  from  the  hollow, 
When  you,  like  joy's  bright  angels, 

Came  swift  to  hill  and  dale. 
Fresh-budded  leaves  of  spring-time. 

Hail  to  your  beauty,  hail ! 

Your  tender  verdant  color, 

Thin  stems  and  graceful  guise. 
How  sweetly  do  they  quench  the  thirst 

Of  eager,  longing  eyes  I 
.Afflicted  .souls  at  sight  of  you 

Take  comfort  and  grow  gay. 
New-budded  leaves  of  s])riiig-tiine. 

All  hail  to  vou  to-dav  ! 


THE   FIRST  GREEN  LEA  VES. 

Come,  in  the  dark  breast  of  our  dales 

To  shine,  the  hills  between  ! 
C'ome,  o'er  our  bare  and  shivering  trees 

To  cast  a  veil  of  green  ! 
Come,  to  give  sad-faced  Nature 

An  aspect  blithe  and  new ! 
O  earliest  leaves  of  spring-time, 

All  hail,  all  hail  to  you  ! 

Come  to  call  up,  for  new-born  Spring, 

A  dawn  of  roses  fair  ! 
Come,  and  invite  the  breezes  light 

To  play  with  your  soft  hair  I 
Say  to  the  fragrant  blossoms, 

"  Oh,  haste  !  Men  long  for  you  1  " 
Hail,  earliest  leaves  of  spring-time. 

Young  leaves  so  fresh  and  new ! 

Come,  come,  O  leaves,  and  with  sweet  wings 

Of  hope  from  yonder  sky 
Cover  the  sad  earth  of  the  graves 

Wherein  our  dear  ones  lie  ! 
Weave  o'er  the  bones  so  dear  to  us 

A  garland  wet  with  dew, 
Ye  wings  of  hope's  bright  angels. 

Young  leaves  so  fresh  and  new  ! 


59 


6o  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


DEATH   OF    A   YOUTH    OF   ZEITOUN. 

MuGURDiTCH  Beshiktashlian,  a  Roman  Catholic  Arme- 
nian, was  born  in  1829;  was  educated  at  the  Mechitarist  Con- 
vent in  Venice,  and  was  for  years  a  professor  of  the  Armenian 
language  in  Constantinople.  In  addition  to  his  original  works, 
he  translated  into  Armenian  many  poems  from  other  lan- 
guages. It  is  not  certain  whether  "  A  Brave  Son  of  Armenia  " 
is  an  adaptation  from  one  of  Victor  Hugo's  "  Oriental  Poems," 
or  whether  Hugo,  who  was  an  admirer  of  Armenian  poetry, 
adapted  it  from  the  Armenian.  Beshiktashlian  died  in  1868. 
On  his  gravestone  are  carved  the  lines  that  form  the  refrain 
of  one  of  his  most  popular  songs  :  — 

"  What  sound,  beneath  the  stars  aflame, 
•So  lovely  as  a  brother's  name  ?  " 


HOM  dost  thou  seek,  sweet  mother? 
Come,  tremble  not,  draw  near  ! 
Gaze  on  thy  son's  blood-streaming  wounds 
Without  a  sigh  or  tear. 
Let  Turkish  mothers  rend  their  hair ; 
Do  thou  glad  news  to  Zeitoun  bear ! 

.As,  by  my  cradle,  thou  didst  soothe 

With  tender  hand  and  smile 
My  childish  form  to  sleep,  and  sing 

With  angel  voice  the  while. 
Lay  me  to  rest,  without  a  care, 
-And  joyful  news  to  Zeitoun  bear  ! 


DEA  TH  Of  A    YOUTH  OF  ZEITOUN.         6 1 

Red  floods  are  welling  from  my  wounds, 

But,  mother,  look  around  ; 
See  how  the  fierce  blood-thirsty  Turks 

By  thousands  strew  the  ground  ! 
Our  swords  devoured  them,  scattered  there  ; 
Then  joyful  news  to  Zeitoun  bear ! 

They  smote  us  like  a  dragon, 

With  sudden  roaring  deep  ; 
But  Zeitoun  shook  her  rocky  head, 

And  rolled  them  down  the  steep. 
Red  was  the  stain  our  rocks  did  wear ; 
Then  joyful  news  to  Zeitoun  bear  ! 

Our  fathers'  ghosts  applauded  ; 

Our  old  fire  is  not  dead  ! 
Our  slaughtered  kin  rejoiced  to  see 

The  blood  of  vengeance  shed. 
Mount  Ararat  the  joy  did  share ; 
Mother,  glad  news  to  Zeitoun  bear  ! 

Take  my  last  kiss,  my  mother, 

And  bear  it  to  my  love  ; 
A  kiss,  too,  for  my  native  soil. 

That  now  my  tomb  must  prove. 
Plant  thou  a  cross  above  me  there^ 
And  joyful  news  to  Zeitoun  bear ! 


^tSf^f^ 


62  ARMENIAN  POEAfS. 


SPRING. 

OW  cool  and  sweet,  O  breeze  ot  morn, 
Thou  stirrest  in  the  air, 
Caressing  soft  the  dewy  flowers, 
The  young  girl's  clustering  hair  ! 
But  not  my  country's  breeze  thou  art. 
Blow  past !  thou  canst  not  touch  my  heart. 

How  sweetly  and  how  soulfully 

Thou  singest  from  the  grove, 
O  bird,  while  men  admire  thy  voice 

In  tender  hours  of  love  ! 
But  not  my  country's  bird  thou  art. 
Sing  elsewhere  !     Deaf  to  thee  my  heart. 

With  what  a  gentle  murmur, 

O  brook,  thy  current  flows, 
Reflecting  in  its  mirror  clear 

The  maiden  and  the  rose  ! 
But  not  my  native  stream  thou  art. 
Flow  past !  thou  canst  not  charm  my  heart. 

Though  over  ruins  linger 

Armenia's  bird  and  breeze, 
And  though  Armenia's  turbid  stream 

Creeps  "mid  the  cypress-trees, 
They  voice  thy  sighs,  and  from  my  heart. 
My  country,  they  shall  not  depart  I 


A   BRA  VE  SON  OF  ARMENIA.  63 


A   BRAVE  SON   OF   ARMENIA. 

HERE  leaned  against  a  gravestone 
Upon  a  mountain  steep, 
A  fair-haired  youth  of  gallant  mien, 
Who  mused  in  sorrow  deep. 

His  eyes  now  sought  the  heavens, 

And  now  the  earth  below. 
Son  of  the  hills  and  valleys, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so? 

l^ost  thou  desire,  to  soothe  thee, 

A  vast  and  stormy  sea, 
Whose  ranks  of  wind-stirred  billows 

Shall  sing  to  comfort  thee  ? 

Or  heaven's  immense  and  wondrous  vault. 
Star-strewn,  thine  eyes  to  greet  ? 

Or  smiles  from  nature's  fairest  things. 
The  flowers,  the  zephyrs  sweet? 

Or  dost  thou  yearn  for  solace 

All  other  joys  above,  — 
A  gentle  mother's  kisses, 

A  sweetheart's  tender  love  ? 

To  cure  thy  heart's  deep  sorrow 
What  wouldst  thou  have,  oh,  what? 

"  My  longing  is  for  powder. 
For  powder  and  for  shot ! " 


64  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


WE    ARE    BROTHERS. 

pROM  glorious  Nature's  myriad  tongues 

Though  songs  be  breathed  by  lips  of  love, 
And  though  the  maiden's  fingers  fair 
Across  the  thrilling  harp-strings  rove, 
Of  all  earth's  sounds,  there  is  no  other 
So  lovely  as  the  name  of  brother. 

Clasp  hands,  for  we  are  brothers  dear, 

Of  old  by  tempest  rent  apart ; 
The  dark  designs  of  cruel  Eate 

Shall  fail,  when  heart  is  joined  to  heart. 
What  sound,  beneath  the  stars  aflame. 
So  lovely  as  a  brother's  name? 

And  when  our  ancient  Mother- Land 

Beholds  her  children  side  by  side, 
The  dews  of  joyful  tears  shall  heal 

Her  heart's  sad  wounds,  so  deep  and  wide- 
What  sound,  beneath  the  stars  aflame, 
So  lovely  as  a  brother's  name  ? 

\>'e  wept  together  in  the  past ; 

Let  us  unite  in  harmony 
And  blend  again  our  tears,  our  joys  ; 

So  shall  our  efforts  fruitful  be. 
What  sound,  beneath  the  stars  aflame, 
So  lovely  as  a  brother's  name? 


I'VE   ARE   BROTHERS.  6?, 

Together  let  us  work  and  strive, 

Together  sow,  with  toil  and  pain, 
The  seed  that  shall,  with  harvest  blest, 

Make  bright  Armenia's  fields  again. 
What  sound,  beneath  the  stars  aflame, 
So  lovely  as  a  brother's  name  ? 


66 


ARMEAJAN  FOEMii. 


CRADLE   SONG. 

Raphael  Patkanian,  the  most  popular  of  Armenian  poets, 
was  born  in  Southern  Russia  in  1830.  He  was  the  son  of  poor 
parents,  but  both  his  father  and  grandfather  had  been  distin- 
guished for  their  poetic  gifts.  While  at  the  University  of  Mos- 
cow, he  organized  a  literary  club  among  his  Armenian  fellow- 
students,  and  from  the  initials  of  their  names  formed  his  own 
pen-name  of  Kamar  Katiba.  Many  of  his  poems  were  written 
during  the  Turco-Russian  war,  when  the  Russian  Armenians 
cherished  high  hopes  for  the  deliverance  of  Turkish  Armenia 
from  the  Ottoman  yoke.  Patkanian  died  in  1892,  after  forty- 
two  years  of  continuous  activity  as  a  teacher,  author,  and 
editor. 

IGHTING.AI.E.  oh,  leave  our  garden, 
Where  soft  dews  the  blossoms  steep  ; 
With  thy  litanies  melodious 
Come  and  sing  my  son  to  sleep  ! 
Nay,  he  sleeps  not  for  thy  chanting. 
And  his  weeping  hath  not  ceased. 
Come  not,  nightingale  !     My  darling 
Does  not  wish  to  be  a  priest. 


O  thou  thievisli,  clever  jackdaw, 
That  in  coin  findest  thy  joy. 

With  thy  tales  of  gold  and  profit 
Come  and  sootlie  mv  wailing  bov  ! 


CRADLE   SO  AC. 

Nay,  thy  chatter  does  not  lull  him, 
And  his  crying  is  not  stayed. 

Come  not,  jackdaw  !  for  my  darling 
Will  not  choose  the  merchant's  trade. 

AVild  dove,  leave  the  fields  and  pastures 

Where  thou  grievest  all  day  long ; 
Come  and  bring  my  boy  sweet  slumber 

With  thy  melancholy  song  ! 
Still  he  weeps.     Nay,  come  not  hither, 

Plaintive  songster,  for  I  see 
That  he  loves  not  lamentations, 

And  no  mourner  will  he  be. 

Leave  thy  chase,  brave-hearted  falcon! 

Haply  he  thy  song  would  hear. 
And  the  boy  lay  hushed,  and  slumbered, 

With  the  war-notes  in  his  ear. 


67 


4^ 


68  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE   TEARS   OF   ARAXES. 


WALK  by  Mother  Arax 

With  faltering  steps  and  slow, 

And  memories  of  past  ages 
Seek  in  the  waters'  flow. 


But  they  run  dark  and  turbid, 
And  beat  upon  the  shore 

In  grief  and  bitter  sorrow, 
Lamenting  evermore. 

"  Araxes  !  with  the  fishes 
Why  dost  not  dance  in  glee  ? 

The  sea  is  still  far  distant. 
Yet  thou  art  sad,  like  me. 

"  From  thy  proud  eyes,  O  Mother, 
Why  do  the  tears  downpour  ? 

Why  dost  thou  haste  so  swiftly 
Past  thy  familiar  shore  ? 

"  Make  not  thy  current  turbid  ; 

Flow  calm  and  joyously. 
Thy  youth  is  short,  fair  river  ; 

Thou  soon  wilt  reach  the  sea. 


THE    TEARS   OF  ARAXES.  69 

"  Let  sweet  rose-hedges  brighten 

Thy  hospitable  shore, 
And  nightingales  among  them 

Till  morn  their  music  pour. 

"  Let  ever-verdant  willows 

Lave  in  thy  waves  their  feet, 
And  with  their  bending  branches 

Refresh  the  noonday  heat. 

"  Let  shepherds  on  thy  margin 

Walk  singing,  without  fear; 
Let  lambs  and  kids  seek  freely 

Thy  waters  cool  and  clear." 

Araxes  swelled  her  current, 

Tossed  high  her  foaming  tide, 
And  in  a  voice  of  thunder 

Thus  from  her  depths  replied  :  — 

"  Rash,  thoughtless  youth,  why  com'st  thou 

My  age-long  sleep  to  break, 
And  memories  of  my  myriad  griefs 

Within  my  breast  to  wake  ? 

"  When  hast  thou  seen  a  widow, 

After  her  true-love  died. 
From  head  to  foot  resplendent 

With  ornaments  of  pride  ? 

"  For  whom  should  I  adorn  me  ? 

Wliose  eyes  shall  I  delight? 
The  stranger  hordes  that  tread  my  banks 

Are  hateful  in  my  sight. 


70 


ARMENIA  IV  FOE  MS. 

"  My  kindred  stream,  impetuous  Kur, 

Is  widowed,  like  to  me, 
But  bows  beneath  the  tyrant's  yoke, 

And  wears  it  slavishly. 

"  But  I,  who  am  Armenian, 
My  own  Armenians  know  ; 

I  want  no  stranger  bridegroom  ; 
A  widowed  stream  I  flow. 

"  Once  I,  too,  moved  in  splendor, 

Adorned  as  is  a  bride 
With  myriad  precious  jewels. 

My  smiling  banks  beside. 

"  My  waves  were  pure  and  limpid, 
And  curled  in  rippling  play  ; 

The  morning  star  within  them 
Was  mirrored  till  the  day. 

"  What  from  that  time  remaineth  ? 

All,  all  has  passed  away. 
Which  of  my  prosperous  cities 

Stands  near  my  waves  to-day? 

"  Mount  Ararat  dotli  pour  me, 

As  with  a  mother's  care. 
From  out  her  sacred  bosom 

Pure  water,  cool  and  fair. 

"  Shall  I  her  holy  bounty 

To  hated  aliens  fling? 
Shall  strangers'  fields  be  watered 

F"rom  good  Saint  Jacob's  spring  ? 


THE    TEARS  OF  A K AXES. 

"  For  filthy  Turk  or  Persian 

Shall  I  my  waters  pour, 
That  they  may  heathen  rites  perform 

Upon  my  very  shore. 

"  While  my  own  sons,  defenceless, 
Are  exiled  from  their  home, 

And,  faint  with  thirst  and  hunger, 
In  distant  countries  roam? 

"  My  own  Armenian  nation 

Is  banished  far  away  ; 
A  godless,  barbarous  people 

Dwells  on  my  banks  to-day. 

"  Shall  I  my  hospitable  shores 

Adorn  in  festive  guise 
For  them,  or  gladden  with  fair  looks 

Their  wild  and  evil  eyes  ? 

"  Still,  while  my  sons  are  exiled, 

Shall  I  be  sad,  as  now. 
This  is  my  heart's  deep  utterance, 

My  true  and  holy  vow." 

No  more  spake  Mother  Arax  ; 

She  foamed  up  mightily. 
.And,  coiling  like  a  serpent. 

Wound  sorrowing  toward  the  sea. 


71 


7* 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE    ARMENIAN    (ilRL. 


iSAVE  you  seen  the  bright  moon  rising 
In  the  heavens?     Have  you  seen 
Ruddy  apricots  that  shimmer 

Through  the  garden's  foliage  green  ? 


Have  you  seen  the  red  rose  glowing 
Where  green  leaves  about  her  meet, 

And  around  her,  in  a  bevy, 
Lilies,  pinks,  and  iris  sweet? 

Lo,  beside  Armenia's  maiden. 

Dark  and  dim  the  bright  moon  is  ; 
Apricots  and  pinks  and  iris 

Are  not  worth  a  single  kiss. 

Roses  on  her  cheeks  are  blooming, 

On  her  brow  a  lily  fair, 
And  of  innocence  the  symbol 

Is  the  smile  her  sweet  li])s  wear. 

From  her  friend  she  takes  the  zither 
With  a  blush  the  heart  that  wins  ; 

Touching  it  with  dainty  fingers, 
The  lekzinca^  she  begins. 

'   An  Oriental  dance. 


THE   ARMEXIAX  GIRL. 

Like  a  tree  her  form  is  slender, 
Swaying  with  a  dreamy  grace  ; 

Now  she  flies  with  rapid  footsteps. 
Now  returns  with  gliding  pace. 

All  the  young  men's  hearts  are  melted 
When  the  maiden  they  behold, 

And  the  old  men  curse  their  fortune 
That  so  early  they  grew  old. 


74 


ARMENJAX  rOEMS. 


THE   NEW  GENERATION. 


HEN  the  mother,  with  sore  travail, 
To  the  world  a  man-child  gives. 
Let  a  sharp  sword  from  his  father 
Be  the  first  "ift  he  receives. 


As  he  grows,  instead  of  playthings, 
'leys  for  childish  sport  and  game, 

Let  his  father  give  him,  rather, 
A  good  gun,  of  deadly  aim. 

When  his  time  is  come  for  schooling, 
Let  him  to  the  sword  give  heed  ; 

Teach  him  first  to  wield  his  weapon  ; 
After,  let  him  learn  to  read. 

Skill  of  reading,  craft  of  writing. 

Is  a  useful  thing  and  good  ; 
Kut  at  the  examinations 

Ask  him  first,  "  Canst  thou  shed  blood?" 

Hope  ye  in  no  other  manner 

Poor  .Armenia  to  save. 
Ill  the  beggar's  part  besecmeth 

Independent  men  nnd  brave. 


LULLABY.  ^5 


LULLABY. 


WAKE,  my  darling  !    Open  those  bright  eyes, 
dark  and  deep, 
And  scatter  from  thine   eyelids   the  heavy 
shades  of  sleep. 
Sweet  tales  the  angels  long  enough   in  dreams  have 

told  to  thee ; 
Now  I  will  tell  thee  of  the  things  thou  in  the  world 
shalt  see. 

Chorus. 

Awake,  and  ope  thy  beauteous  eyes,  my  child,   my 

little  one ! 
Thy  mother  sees  therein  her  life,  her  glory,  and   her 

sun. 

Thou  shalt  grow  up,  grow  tall  and  strong,  as  rises  in 

the  air 
A  stately  plane-tree  ;  how  I  love  thy  stature  tall  and 

fair! 
The    heroes    of    Mount    Ararat,    their    ghosts    shall 

strengthen  thee 
With  power  and  might,  that  thou  as  brave  as  Vartau's 

self  mayst  be. 


•j6  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

A  golden  girdle   for  thy  waist  my  fingers  deft  have 

made, 
And  from  it  I  have  hung  a  sword,  —  my  own  hands 

ground  the  blade. 

Within  our  courtyard  stands  a  steed  that,  champing, 

waits  for  thee. 
Awake,  and  take  thy  sword  !     How  long  wilt  thou  a 

slumberer  be  ? 
Thy  nation  is  in  misery  ;  in  fetters,  lo !  they  weep  ; 
Thy  brethren  are  in  slavery,  my  brave  one  ;  wilt  thou 

sleep  ? 

No,  soon  my  son  will  waken,  will  mount  liis  champing 

steed, 
Will  wipe  away  Armenia's  tears,  and  stanch  the  hearts 

that  bleed ; 
^Vill  bid  his  nation's  mourning  cease,  and  those  that 

weep  shall  smile. 
Ah,  my  Armenian  brethren,  wait  but  a  little  while  ! 

Lo,  my  Aghassi  has  awaked  1      He   girt  himself  with 

speed. 
And  from  his  sword-belt  hung  the  sword,  and  mounted 

on  his  steed. 


♦ 


TO  MY  NIGHTINGALE. 


77 


TO   MY    NIGHTINGALE. 

||HY  didst  thou  cease,  ()  nightingale,  thy  sweet, 
melodious  song, 
That  to  my  sad  and  burning  eyes  bade  floods 
of  teardrops  throng? 
Dost  thou  remember,  when  in  spring  the  dawn  was 

breaking  clear, 
How  often  to  my  heart  thou  hast  recalled  my  country 
dear? 

Sweet  was  that  memory,  as  a  dream  that  for  a  mo- 
ment's space 

Brings  joy  into  a  mourner's  lieart,  and  brightens  his 
sad  face. 

The  weary  world  forgotten,  to  thy  \oice  I  bent  my 
ear ; 

And  I  was  far  away,  and  saw  once  more  my  country 
dear. 

I  know  thou  too  art  longing  for  that  vernal  land  the 

while,  — 
That   paradise,  afar  from  which  Fate   has   for  us  no 

smile. 
Oh,  who  will  give  me  a  bird's  wings,  that  I  may  sweep 

and  soar, 
And  cleave  the  clouds,  and  hie  me  to  Armenia  once 

more? 


78  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

If  I  could  breathe  her  holy  and  revivifying  air, 

I  know  I  should  be  cured  at  last  of  all  this  weight  of 

care. 
But  when  spring  passed  away  it  brought  thy  music  to 

a  close, 
And  took  from  us  thy  chanted  hymn,  with  the  petals 

of  the  rose. 

I  '11  open  thy  cage  door ;  thou  'rt  free  !  Now  to  Ar- 
menia fly  ! 

Dost  thou  desire  the  rose,  't  is  there  ;  there  is  a  cloud- 
less sky  ; 

There  are  cool  breezes,  o'er  the  fields  that  softly, 
sweetly  blow  ; 

A  sun  that  shines  in  splendor,  and  brooks  that  mur- 
muring flow. 

I  too,  like  thee,  am  longing  for  a  sunny  atmosphere  ; 
The  mist  and  cloud  and  heavy  air  have  tired  my  spirit 

here. 
The  North  wind  blows  the  dust  to  heaven,  the  crows 

with  harsh  notes  sail  ; 
This    is   the    Northern    air.    and    this    the     Northern 

nightingale  ! 

0  foolish,    poor    Armenians,     what    seek    ye    in     the 

North  ? 

1  hate  its  empty  pleasures  and  its  life  of  little  worth. 
Give  me   my  country's  balmy  air.   her  cloudless   sky 

o'erhead  : 
Give  me  my  country's   pastures  green,    my  country's 
roses  red  ! 


SHALL    WK  BE  S/Lf.NT? 


79 


SHALL   WE    BE    SILENT? 


HALL  we  be  silent,  brothers? 

Shall  we  be  silent  still? 
Our  foe  has  set  against  our  breasts 
His  sword,  that  thirsts  to  kill ; 
His  ears  are  deaf  to  cries  and  groans. 

()  brothers,  make  avow  ! 
What  shall  we  do  ?     What  is  our  part  ? 
Shall  we  keep  silence  now  ? 

Our  foe  has  seized  our  fatherland 

By  guile  and  treachery  ; 
Has  blotted  out  the  name  of  Haig, 

And  ruined  utterly 
The  house  of  Thorkom,  to  the  ground  ; 

Has  reft  from  us,  to  boot, 
Our  crown,  our  arms,  our  right  of  speech  — 

And  shall  we  still  be  mute? 

Our  foe  has  seized  our  guardian  swords, 

Our  ploughs  that  tilled  the  plain, 
And  from  the  ploughshare  and  the  sword 

Has  welded  us  a  chain. 
Alas  for  us  !  for  we  are  slaves, 

And  fettered  hand  and  foot 
With  bonds  and  manacles  of  iron  — 

And  shall  we  still  be  mute  ? 


So  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Our  foeman,  holding  o'er  our  heads 

His  weapon  fierce  and  strong, 
Makes  us  devour  our  bitter  tears. 

Our  protests  against  wrong. 
So  many  woes  are  heaped  on  us, 

To  weep  our  sorrows'  sum 
We  need  the  broad  Euphrates'  flood  — 

And  shall  we  still  be  dumb? 

Our  foe,  with  overweening  pride, 

Treads  justice  under  foot, 
And  drives  us  from  our  native  soil  — 

And  shall  we  still  be  mute  ? 
Like  strangers  in  our  fatherland. 

Pursued  o'er  plain  and  hill. 
O  brothers,  where  shall  we  appeal? 

Shall  we  be  silent  still  ? 

Not  yet  content  with  all  the  ills 

That  he  has  made  us  bear, 
His  insolent  and  cursed  hand 

He  stretches  forth,  to  tear 
The  last  bond  of  our  nation's  life  — 

And,  if  he  have  his  will, 
Complete  destruction  waits  for  us  ; 

Shall  we  be  silent  still  ? 

Scorning  the  glory  of  our  land, 
(~)ur  foe,  with  malice  deep. 

Invades  our  church,  and  makes  the  wolf 
The  shepherd  of  the  sheep. 


SHALL    IVE   BE   SILENT?  gj 

We  liave  no  sacred  altars  now  ; 

In  valley  or  on  hill 
No  place  of  prayer  is  left  to  us  ; 

Shall  we  be  silent  still  ? 

If  we  keep  silence,  even  now, 

When  stones  have  found  a  voice. 
Will  not  men  say  that  slavery 

Is  our  desert  and  choice  ? 
The  sons  of  brave  and  holy  sires, 

Sprung  from  a  sacred  root, 
We  know  the  deeds  our  fathers  did    - 

How  long  shall  we  be  mute  ? 

Mute  be  the  dumb,  the  paralyzed. 

Those  that  hold  slavery  dear  ! 
But  we,  brave  hearts,  let  us  march  forth 

To  battle,  without  fear  ; 
And,  if  the  worst  befall  us, 

Facing  the  foe  like  men, 
W'ip  back  in  death  our  glory, 

And  sleep  in  silence  then  ! 


^ 


83 


ARMENIAN  POEAfS. 


IF. 


IP'  my  white  liair  could  once  again  be  black. 

And  my  old  strength  return  to  me  at  need, 
I     And  if  1  could  become  a  valiant  youth, 

With  sword  in  hand,  upon  a  fiery  steed ; 


I  to  the  field  of  Avarair  would  go, 

Field  where  Armenian  blood  rained  down  like  dew. 

0  my  loved  nation,  Thorkom's  ancient  race  ! 

1  would  give  back  your  long-lost  crown  to  you. 

To  the  Armenian  maidens  I  would  say : 

"  Sell  now  your  costly  garments  beautiful ; 

Put  by  adornment,  luxury,  and  pearls  j 

Our  swords  are  rusty,  and  their  blades  are  dull. 

"  Give  us  your  muslin  robes,  Armenian  maids, 
That  we  our  bleeding  wounds  may  stanch  and  stay 
Weave  bandages  for  us  of  your  thick  hair ; 
'  T  is  thus  you  need  to  show  your  love  to-day." 

Were  I  a  rich  man,  in  whose  coffers  deep 
The  gold  and  silver  to  great  heaps  had  grown, 
T  would  not  be,  as  many  are.  alas  ! 
A  patriot  in  vain  words,  and  words  alone. 


JF. 


S3 


Not  bright  champagne,  nor  Russia's  crystal  crob.<, 
But  store  of  balls  and  powder  I  would  buy ; 
Against  Armenia's  foemen  I  would  go 
\Vith  a  great  host,  freely  and  fearlessly. 

Or  if  I  were  a  nation's  potent  king, 
I  to  my  army  would  give  strong  command 
To  march  with  fleet  steps  toward  Armenia, 
To  help  the  poor  oppressed  Armenian  land. 

But  if  for  one  brief  day,  one  little  hour, 

One  moment's  space,  I  were  the  Lord  of  all, 

What  a  sharp  spear  at  our  blood-thirsty  foes 

I  with  strong  arm  would  hurl,  and  make  them  fall ! 

O  guileful  Russian  !     Base  and  vicious  Turk  ! 
O  vengeful  Persian  !     O  fanatic  Greek, 
Armenia's  age-long  rival !     On  your  sons 
My    two-edged    sword    should    righteous    vengeance 
wreak  ! 


Jf 


84  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


PRAISE    TO   THE    SULTAN. 

jUR  thanks  to  you,  great  Sultan  !     You  have 
turned 
Armenia  to  a  chaos  of  hewn  stone  ; 
Daily  by  myriads  you  have  slaughtered  us  ; 
Our  thriving  hamlets  you  have  overthrown. 

Glory  and  fame  unto  }'Our  Majesty ! 

Following  the  Koran's  law,  you  have  not  feared 
Our  holy  Bible's  pages  to  defile  ; 

With  filth  and  mire  the  cross  you  have  besmeared. 

Our  gratitude  to  you,  great  Padishah  ! 

Gain  from  our  slaughter  has  accrued  to  you  ; 
Your  intimate  associates  you  have  made 

Circassians  foul,  and  Koords,  a  thievish  crew. 

Jn  noisome  dungeons,  thousands  glorify 
Your  Sovereign  Majesty  with  loud  acclaims. 

You  leave  no  blank  in  all  the  calendar, 

But  fill  each  space  with  myriad  martyrs'  names. 

Armenia's  happy  ruins,  glorious  King, 

Will  ne'er  forget  you ;  on  our  history's  page 

Your  wondrous  deeds  and  your  illustrious  name 
Shall  blazoned  be,  to  live  from  age  to  age. 


WHAT  SHALL    WE  DO^.  85 


WHAT   SHALL  WE    DO? 

HAT  shall  we  do?"  Now,  shame  on  those 
who  that  weak  plaint  renew  ! 
He    that   despairs,    in    deepest   shame    his 
cowardice  shall  rue. 
Armenian  brothers,  let  us  ask  no  more  what  we  shall 
do! 

What  does  the  man  do  that  has  chanced  to  fall  into 

the  sea? 
What  does  he  do  that  has  no  bread,  and  starves  in 

poverty  ? 
What  does  he  do  that  has  been  seized  and  bound  in 

slavery  ? 

He  that  is  drowning  in  the  sea  struggles  with  all  his 

might ; 
The  hungry  man  wears  out  his  neighbors  threshold  da\- 

and  night ; 
He  that  is  in  captivity  seeks  ever  means  of  flight. 

O  rich   man,   for   what  purpose   hast  thou   filled  thy 

chests  with  gold? 
O  youth,  for  what  hast  thou  reserved  thy  strength,  thy 

courage  bold  ? 
O  patriot,  wherefore  hast  thou  loved  thy  country  from 

of  old? 
Let  us  no  more  the  plaint  renew, 
"  Armenians,  say,  what  shall  we  do  ? " 


86  ARMENJA.y  POEMS. 


THE   SAD-FACED    MOON. 

(From  "The  Death  of  Vartan.") 

MOON,  fair  moon,  how  long  wilt  thou  appear 
So  pale,  so  mournful,  in  the  heavens'  height  ? 
Have  the  dark  storm-clouds  filled  thee  witli 
alarm. 
Or  fiery  lightnings,  flashing  through  the  night? 

There  is  none  like  to  thee  among  the  stars  ; 

The  only  beauty  of  the  heavens  thou  art. 
Hast  thou  grown  pale  with  envy  ?     Nay,  O  moon, 

Thou  hast  some  other  secret  in  thy  heart. 

Why  is  thy  countenance  thus  changed  and  sad? 

Speak  to  me  freely  !     On  the  darkest  day. 
If  we  but  find  a  sympathizing  friend 

'T  is  said  that  half  our  grief  will  pass  away. 

The  mourner  is  the  mourner's  comforter. 

Where  wilt  thou  find  a  sadder  man  than  I, 
Forsaken  and  in  sorrow,  and.  like  thee. 

Hiding  a  secret,  without  word  or  cry  ? 

I  pass  my  days  in  grief,  gay  among  men. 
Weeping  in  solitude  ;  my  salt  tears  flow, 

Mv  sad  sighs  sound  forever,  without  rest; 
I  have  no  >ym|)athizer  in  my  woe. 


THE   SAD-FACED   MOO  A'. 


87 


Yet  every  living  creature  has  a  friend  ; 

Shall  I  alone  lack  love  and  friendship?     Nay, 
Open  thy  heart  to  me  !     If  thou  art  sad, 

My  sympathy  will  charm  thy  grief  awa)-. 

{The  moon  s/cuiA's.) 

Hearken  !     One  night  innumerable  stars 

Filled  the  blue  sky.     Among  them,  like  a  bride. 

I  glided  softly,  with  my  bright  face  veiled. 
I  passed  o'er  Pontus,  bathing  in  its  tide ; 

I  touched  the  summits  of  the  Caucasus  ; 

I  saw  in  Lake  Sevan  my  mirrored  face ; 
I  came  to  great  Lake  Van,  of  fishes  full, 

And  cooled  me  in  its  waves  a  little  space. 

O'er  many  mountains,  many  fields  I  passed. 

Shedding  my  light ;  o'er  all  reigned  silence  deep  ; 

Amid  his  cattle  in  the  quiet  field 

The  weary  farmer  lay  in  peaceful  sleep. 

Ah,  fair  Armenia  on  that  night  was  blest ! 

The  stars  of  heaven  made  her  more  glorious  still ; 
And  I,  slow  passing  o'er  her  through  the  skies, 

Gazed  on  that  land,  and  could  not  gaze  my  fill. 

In  one  short  month,  my  circuit  I  renewed. 

O'er  cities,  mountains,  lakes,  I  passed  in  haste, 
Longing  to  visit  the  Armenian  land. 

Night  had  again  her  fruitful  fields  embraced ; 


8S  ARiMENIAX  POEMS. 

But  oh  !  where  were  ihe  bounteous  harvests  now? 

Where  was  the  tireless  tiller  of  the  soil  ? 
Where  was  his  little  thick-necked  bufTalo? 

Where  were  the  gardens,  product  of  his  toil  ? 

Dark  smoke  had  covered  the  Armenian  sky  ; 

Cities  and  hamlets,  burning,  crashed  and  fell ; 
Fierce  tongues  of  flame  reached  even  to  the  clouds  ; 

To  see  Armenia  was  to  gaze  on  hell ! 

Armenia,  garden  wet  with  heavenly  dew  ! 

Whence  came  this  mighty  woe,  at  whose  behest  ? 
Did  jealousy  possess  his  evil  heart? 

Had  in  his  soul  a  serpent  made  its  nest  ? 

Yes,  it  was  age-long  jealousy  and  hate, 

That,  smouldering  deep,  consume  man's  heart  away, 
Until  at  last,  with  fierce  and  thundering  sound, 

The  hidden  fires  break  forth,  to  scorch  and  slay  ; 

Like  to  a  mountain,  still  and  calm  without. 
On  which  the  smooth  snow  all  unmelted  sleeps ; 

Suddenly,  lightnings  from  its  breast  are  born, 
And  o'er  whole  cities  fiery  ruin  sweeps. 

O  fair  Armenian  land  !  Armenian  race  ! 

O  happy  places,  ruined  now  and  void  ! 
Hamlets  and  cornfields,  cloisters,  teeming  towns  ! 

Where  are  you  ?     Why  were  you  so  soon  destroyed  ? 


THE  SAD-FACED  MOO  A'.  89 

The  moon  was  silent.     And  the  dark  clouds  came 
And  hid  the  sky  ;  she  passed  behind  a  cloud  ; 

And  I  was  left  alone  and  sorrowful, 

Musing  with  folded  arms  and  forehead  bowed. 

And  ever  since  that  time,  when  evening  comes, 
I  wait  the  pale  moon's  rising,  calm  and  slow ; 

And  as  I  gaze  upon  her  mournful  face, 
I  think  upon  my  nation  and  its  woe. 


90 


A  RMF.NfA  N  POEMS. 


COMPLAINT  TO    EUROPE. 

Y  hands,  my  feet,  the  chain  of  slavery  ties, 
Yet  Europe  says,  "  Why  do  you  not  arise  ? 
Justice  nor  freedom  shall  your  portion  he  ; 
Bear  to  the  end  the  doom  of  slavery  !  " 


Six  centuries,  drop  by  drop,  the  tyrant  drains 

The  last  remaining  life-blood  from  our  veins  ; 

Yet  Europe  says,  "  No  strength,  no  power  have  they," 

And  turns  from  us  her  scornful  face  away. 

A  needle  is  not  left  to  us  to-day, 
And  yet,  "  You  ought  to  draw  the  sword  !  "  they  say. 
To  powder  and  to  shot  could  we  gi\e  heed, 
While  we  sought  bread  our  starving  ones  to  feed  ? 

Have  you  forgotten,  Europe,  how  ihe  dart 
Of  the  fierce  Persian  pointed  at  your  henrt, 
Until,  on  that  dread  field  of  Avarair, 
Armenian  blood  quenched  his  fanatic  fire  ? ' 


*  Geographically,  Armenia  is  the  bridge  between  Europe 
and  Asia.  In  the  early  centuries  the  Armenians  acted  the 
part  of  Iloratius  and  "kept  the  bridge,"  defending  the  gate 
of  Europe  against  the  uncivilized  hordes  of  Asia,  —  first  against 
the  Persian  fire-worshippers,  whose  advance  toward  Europe 
the  Armenians  checked  at  the  battle  of  .\varair  in  A.  D.  451, 
and  later  against  successive  invasions  of  the  Mohammedans. 


COMPLAINT   TO   EUROPE.  91 

Have  you  forgot  the  fell  and  crushing  blow 
Prepared  for  you  by  Islam  long  ago  ? 
We  would  not  see  your  desolation  then, 
Burning  of  cities,  massacre  of  men. 

Two  hundred  years  Armenia,  bathed  in  blood, 
Withstood  that  great  invasion's  mighty  flood. 
Europe  was  safe,  our  living  wall  behind, 
Until  tlie  enemy's  huge  strength  declined. 

Have  you  forgotten,  Europe,  how  of  yore 
Your  heroes  in  the  desert  hungered  sore  ? 
What  then  could  strength  or  force  of  arms  avail, 
Had  we  not  fed  your  hosts,  with  famine  pale  ?  ^ 

Ungrateful  Europe,  heed  our  woes,  we  pray  : 
Remember  poor  Armenia  to-day  I 

'  The  Armenians  acted  as  guides  to  the  Crnsaders  in  Asia; 
and  when  they  were  about  to  raise  the  siege  of  Antioch  for 
want  of  food,  the  Armenians  of  Cilicia  supplied  them  with 
provisions  and  enabled  them  to  take  the  city. 


^^ 


92  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


SONG  OF  THE  VAN  MOTHER. 

WILL  not  rock  you,  little  boy,  that  sleep  your 

soul  may  bind ; 
Your   brothers   have   arisen ;   you  only  stay 
behind. 
Awake  from  sleep,  my  darling !     From  the  West  hath 

shone  the  sun. 
Awake  !     The  happy  fortune  of  Armenia  has  begun. 

Lo,  it  is   fallen,  dashed   to  bits,  the   Sultan's  golden 

throne  ! 
From  under  it  the  liberty  of  many  lands  hath  shone. 
Now  he  who  speedily  shall  rise  shall  find  his  liberty  : 
Will  my  fair  son  alone  remain  fast  bound  in  slavery? 

We  have  implored  the  Sultan  with  mourning  and  with 
cries ; 

We  washed  his  hands,  we  washed  his  feet,  with  salt 
tears  from  our  eyes. 

He  would  not  heed  our  piteous  prayers,  our  sad,  be- 
seeching words  ; 

Now  let  us  see  if  he  will  heed  the  clashing  of  onr 
swords ! 


SONG   OF   THE    VAiV  MO  THE  A' 


93 


My  darling,  let  me  from  thine  arms  unbind  the  swad- 
dling band, 

And  lay  a  sword  of  steel  within  that  weak  and  tender 
hand  ! 

Go  to  the  bloody  battlefield,  O  slave,  and  come  back 
freed  ! 

O  Lord,  our  God,  wilt  thou  one  day  unto  our  prayer 
give  heed? 


94 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


EASTER   SONG. 


This  Easter  sont;  is  sung  by  the  children.     In  Turkey  and 
Russia  the  last  verse  is  forl'idden. 


NDERNEATH  the  south  wind's  breathing, 
From  the  fields  the  snow  has  fled  ; 
All  the  children  are  rejoicing  — 
Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead  ! 


Brooks  with  happy  voices  murmnr. 

Boughs  are  budding  overhead, 
All  the  air  is  full  of  bird-songs  — 

Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead  ! 

Boys  and  girls  wear  festal  raiment, 
As  in  May  the  rose  so  red  ; 

Hatred  from  man's  heart  is  ])anished 
Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead ! 

Christ  is  risen,  all  Nature  tells  ns  ; 

When,  ah  !  when  shall  it  be  said 
Of  thee  also,  O  my  country  ! 

Thou  art  risen  from  the  dead  ? 


♦ 


THE  VIRGIN'S  TEARS.  95 


THE  VIRGIN'S  TEARS. 

Leo  Alishan,  born  at  Erzerum,  in  the  heart  of  Armenia, 
early  in  the  last  century,  was  a  Roman  Catholic  Armenian,  a 
monk  of  the  Mechitarist  Convent  at  Venice,  and  a  distin- 
guished antiquarian,  scientist,  linguist,  and  historian,  as  well 
as  a  poet.  He  is  the  author  of  many  important  works  in  these 
different  fields,  and  translated  into  Armenian  a  number  of 
poems  by  Longfellow  and  other  American  writers.  Alishan 
was  loved  and  revered  by  his  countrymen,  not  only  for  his 
erudition  and  patriotism,  but  for  his  gentle  and  unassuming 
disposition. 

|ORTH  welling  from   the  breast  of   sapphire 
lakes, 
Oh,  tell  my  jocund  heart  why  from  their  shore 
Of  emerald  do  those  pairs  of  wandering  pearls 
Like  rain  upon  the  rosy  plains  downpour? 

Less  pure,  less  tender,  are  the  twilight  dews, 

At  eve  descending  on  the  crimson  rose 
And  on  the  lily's  petals,  fine  and  frail, 

Than  those  twin  drops  in  which  thy  sorrow  flows. 

Speak,  why  do  founts  of  shining  tears  descend, 
Mary,  from  thy  love-dropping  virgin  eyes 

To  thy  cheek's  edge,  and  there  hang  tremulous. 
As  the  stars  twinkle  in  the  evening  skies? 


96  AA'ME.y/AX  /'0/:.us. 

As  the  heart-piercing  pupil  of  tlie  eye, 
So  sensitive  each  tear-drop  seems  to  be  ; 

Like  the  unwinking  pupil  of  the  eye, 

Charming  my  soul,  the  bright  drops  look  at  me. 

The  heart  throbs  hard,  the  gazer  holds  his  breath.  ■ 
Ah,  now  I  know  the  truth  !     Oh,  woe  is  me  ! 

For  me  those  tears  have  risen  to  thine  eyes, 
To  heal  my  spirit's  wounds  eternally. 

But  still  of  my  unconsecrated  heart 
Distrustful,  they  half-fallen  linger  there, 

And  do  not  dare  to  drop  and  moisten  me. 
No,  Mary  !     No,  O  Virgin  Mother  fair  I 

1  am  a  land  uncultured,  rough  and  wild  ; 

But,  underneath  those  tender  tears  of  thine, 
Let  rose  and  saffron  bloom  there  !     With  thy  love 

Water  and  cheer  this  sorrowing  heart  of  mine  ! 


EASTER  SONG.  97 


EASTER    SONG. 

ATHER  of  light,  we  praise  thee  ! 
Thy  Son  is  risen  again. 
Spirit  of  love,  we  praise  thee  I 
He  shares  thy  glorious  reiyn. 


Good  tidings,  Virgin  Princess  ! 

Thy  Son  is  risen  this  morn. 
Good  tidings  to  all  mortals. 

The  born  and  the  unborn  ! 

Good  news  to  you,  bright  Heavens  ! 

For  Christ,  who  dwelt  in  you, 
Is  risen  ;  good  tidings,  lowly  Earth  ! 

Thy  Saviour  lives  anew. 

Good  news  to  you,  all  worlds  and  orbs 

That  circle  overhead  ! 
Good  news  !     Your  great  Establisher 

Is  risen  from  the  dead  ! 

Good  news,  ye  light  and  darkness  ! 

A  new  sun  rises  high. 
Good  news  to  you,  all  creatures  ! 

Christ  lives  ;  you  shall  not  die. 

Good  news  to  you,  ye  dead  folk  I 

For  you  shall  be  set  free. 
Good  tidings  to  all  beings 

That  are,  or  are  to  be  ! 
7 


98 


ARMENfAN  POEMS. 


THE    EXILES. 

LAS,  ye  poor  Armenians  ! 
In  undeserved  distress 
^  Ye  wander  forth  to  slavery, 

In  want  and  wretchedness. 

A  myriad  woes  ye  suffered, 
Nor  left  your  own  dear  home  ; 

Ijut  now  ye  leave  your  fathers'  graves, 
In  distant  lands  to  roam. 

These  waters  sweet,  these  sniiUng  fields. 

Where  cities  fair  are  set, 
To  strangers  ye  abandon  them, 

But  how  can  ye  forget  ? 

Nay,  while  you  live,  remember ; 

Be  to  your  country  true  : 
Your  children  and  descendants. 

Bid  them  remember  too. 

The  holy  name  of  Ararat 

And  many  a  sacred  fane. 
Till  the  last  judgment  wakes  the  world, 

Shall  in  their  hearts  remain. 

.Mas  for  thee,  my  country  ! 

.Mas  for  thee,  for  us  ! 
I  would  that  death  had  sealed  mine  eyes 

Ere  I  beheld  thee  thus  ! 


MOON  IN  THE  ARMENIAN  CEMETERY. 


99 


MOON    IN  THE   ARMENIAN   CEMETERY. 


MOON,  fair  lamp  divinely  lit ! 

God  set  you  in  the  sky 
To  lead  night's  hosts,  for  darkness  blind 

And  for  my  heart  an  eye. 


When  o'er  my  head  you  swing,  your  lamp 
A  glittering  chain  doth  hold  ; 

Your  string  of  heavenly  silver  is, 
Your  wick  of  burning  gold  ; 

And,  as  a  diamond  flashes  light, 

You  shed  your  rays  abroad. 
How  bright  you  were,  that  second  night, 

Fresh  from  the  hand  of  God  ! 


How  bright  you  were  when  first  was  heard 

The  heavenly  nightingale  ! 
The  wind,  that  seemed  like  you  alive, 

Played  soft  from  vale  to  vale  ; 

With  that  calm  breeze,  the  limpid  brook 

Plashed  in  nn  undertone  ; 
There  was  no  human  ear  to  hear. 

The  ani^els  heard  alone. 


lOO  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

The  angels  swung  you  in  their  hands, 

And  silently  and  slow 
You  traversed  heaven's  cloudless  arch, 

And  sank  the  waves  below, 


What  time  the  sun  with  feet  of  fire 
Was  soon  to  mount  the  blue, 

While  o'er  the  silent  world  were  spread 
Twilight  and  hoary  dew. 

Stay,  stay,  O  sun  !  awhile  delay  ; 

Rise  not  in  the  blue  sky, 
But  let  the  little  moon  still  walk 

The  cloudless  realm  on  high  ! 

Stay,  little  moon  1     Oh,  linger  yet 
Upon  the  heights  and  hills  ; 

Pass  slowly,  calmly,  where  your  light 
The  sleeping  valle)'s  fills  ! 

For  I  have  words  to  utter  yet. 

To  you  I  would  complain. 
Oh,  many  are  my  bitter  griefs, 

My  heart  is  cleft  in  twain. 

Bright  moon,  haste  not  away  because 

You  hear  a  mourner's  cry  ! 
As  comforter  of  broken  hearts 

You  shine  there  in  the  skv. 


MOON  IN  THE  ARMENIAN  CEMETERY,     loi 

You  come  to  Eden's  land,  but  not 

As  on  that  far  first  night, 
When  man  was  happy,  knowing  naught 

Save  life  and  love's  delight. 

Then  your  white  radiance  was  warm 

To  waves  and  flowerets  fair, 
And  wheresoe'er  your  soft  light  fell, 

Immortal  life  bloomed  there. 


Turn  and  look  down  on  me,  O  moon  ! 

Craze  at  our  mountains'  foot, 
And  see  the  ruined  temples  there, 

And  tombs  so  sad  and  mute,  — 

Tombs  of  Armenians  who  long  since 
From  earth  have  passed  away. 

There  sleep  the  ashes  of  our  sires, 
In  darkness  and  decay. 

Armenians  they,  the  earliest  born 

Of  all  the  human  race. 
Who  had  their  home  within  the  land 

Once  Adam's  dwelling-place. 

(^Here  follows  a  long  list  of  Armenian  kings.) 

But  you  are  setting  fast,  O  moon  ! 

Your  lustre  fades  away, 
And  like  a  silver  plate  you  sink 

In  cloud-banks  dense  and  gray. 


ARMEXIAX  POEMS. 

Stay  yet  a  moment's  space,  O  moon, 

Stay  for  the  love  of  me  ! 
There  in  the  valley  is  one  stone 

Unknown  to  history. 

Go,  let  your  last  light  linger  there. 

And  lift  it  out  of  gloom, 
For  that  obscure  and  nameless  stone 

Will  mark  the  poet's  tomb  ! 


^ 


THE    LIL  V  OF  SNA  VAKSHAX. 


103 


THE    LILY   OF   SHAVARSHAN. 


This  is  an  extract  from  a  long  poem  in  the  classical  Arme- 
nian, describing  the  conversion  to  Christianity  by  the  Apostle 
Thaddeus,  in  the  first  century  A.  D.,  of  Santoukhd,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Armenian  King  Sanadroog.  Both  the  princess  and 
the  apostle  were  put  to  death  by  the  king.  According  to 
Armenian  tradition,  Santoukhd  was  the  earliest  Christian 
martyr  among  women. 


RMENIAN  maidens,  come  and  view 
In  Shavarshan  a  lily  new  ! 


The  radiant  type  of  maidenhood, 

Crown  of  Armenia's  pride  ! 
From  the  fair  brow  beneath  her  \ei] 

The  wind-stirred  curls  float  wide. 
With  little  .steps,  like  turtle  dove, 

She  walks  the  dew-bright  plain  ; 
Her  lips  drop  honey,  and  her  eyes 

Effulgent  glances  rain. 

The  beauty  of  Armenia, 

A  sun-like  mirror  clear. 
Our  Northern  star  is  bright  Santoukhd, 

The  king's  fair  dnuiihter  dear. 


I04  A  KM  EX  J  AN  POEMS. 

She  has  come  forth,  the  graceful  bride 
On  whom  the  East  and  West 

Desire  to  look,  while  fires  of  love 
Consume  the  gazer's  breast. 

Less  fair  the  bright  and  morning  star, 

'Mid  cloudlets  sniall  and  fine  ; 
Less  fair  the  fruit  whose  rosy  tints 

'Mid  apple  leaves  outshine  ; 
Araxes'  hyacinthine  flower 

That  chains  of  dew  doth  wear. 
All  are  less  beautiful  than  she, 

With  gracious  mien  and  air. 

At  sight  of  her,  the  snowy  peaks 

Melt  and  are  flushed  with  rose ; 
Trees,  flowers  bud  forth  ;  the  nightingales 

All  sing  where'er  she  goes. 
The  bell-flowers  open  myriad  eyes 

When  she  comes  through  the  bowers ; 
Beneath  her  breath,  the  vales  and  hills 

Alike  are  clad  in  flowers. 

Before  her  have  been  bent  to  cartli 

Foreheads  with  diadems  ; 
The  valley  has  become  a  hill 

Of  scattered  gold  and  gems. 
Where  passes  by  with  humble  grace 

Armenia's  virgin  sweet, 
Fine  sands  of  pearls  come  longingly 

To  spread  beneath  her  feet. 


THE   LILY  OF  SHAVAKSLL-IN. 

Full  many  a  monarch's  valiant  son 

Has  left  his  palace  home 
In  Persia  or  Albania, 

In  India  or  in  Rome. 
Admiringly  they  gaze  on  her, 

Exclaiming,  "  Happy  he 
Who  wins  the  fair  Armenian  maid 

His  bride  beloved  to  be  !  " 

But  palace  worthy  of  Santoukhd 

The  earth  can  nowhere  show, 
And  for  the  arches  of  her  brows 

This  world  is  all  too  low. 
The  Sky  says,  "  Let  her  on  my  throne 

Reign  queen  o'er  every  land." 
The  Ocean  says,  "  My  purple  waves 

Shall  bow  to  her  command." 

There  is  one  greater  than  the  earth, 

More  wide  than  sea-waves  run, 
Higher  and  vaster  than  the  heavens, 

And  brighter  than  the  sun. 
There  is  a  formidable  King 

Whose  power  no  bound  has  known  ; 
The  royal  maid  Santoukhd  shall  be 

For  him,  and  him  alone. 
Her  halls  of  light  are  all  prepared, 

And  for  a  footstool  meet 
The  azure  sky  adorned  with  stars 

Awaits  her  dove-like  feet. 


'05 


io6  ARMEXIAN  POEMS. 

The  sharp  sword  glitters  in  the  air, 

And  swift  the  red  blood  flows ; 
Santoukhd,  who  was  a  lily  fair, 

Falls  to  the  earth,  a  rose. 
The  sword  flashed  once,  and  aspects  three 

Were  in  Santoukhd  descried  ; 
Her  heart  dropped  blood,  and  roses  red 

Sprang  up  on  every  side  ; 
Her  eyes  were  violet  chalices, 

Sweet  e'en  while  they  expire  ; 
Her  face,  like  lilies  half  unclosed, 

Rut  on  her  lips  what  fire  ! 

The  heaven  and  earth  shine  white  and  red ; 

Come  forth  and  gather,  maids, 
The  rose  and  lily  joined  in  one, 

This  peerless  flower  that  fades  ! 
I^ay  in  the  tomb  that  youthful  corpse, 

With  Thaddeus,  good  and  brave. 
Sweet  maiden  of  Armenia, 

Her  sweet  soil  be  thy  grave  ! 
Armenian  maids,  a  lily  new 
Is  brought  to  Shavarshan  for  vou  ! 


THE  AJGHTINGALE   OF  A  VARAIR. 


107 


THE    NIGHTIXGALE    OF   AVARAIR. 

[HENCE  dost  thou  come,  O  moon,  so  calmly 
and  softly, 
Spreading  o'er  mountain,  valley,  and  plain 
thy  light, 
And  over  me  the  Patriarch,  wandering  sadly. 
With  wandering  thoughts,  in  Avarair  to-night? 

Mere  where  our  matchless,  brave  Armenian  fathers 

Fell  as  giants,  as  angels  to  rise  anew, 
(\im'st  thou  to  spread  o'er  the  bones  of  the  saints  a 
cover 

Of  golden  thread,  from  thy  cloud  of  snowy  hue  ? 

Or  dost  thou  tliinl<.  though  thy  brow  be  bright  already, 
Adornment  of  heroes'  blood  would  become  it  well? 

Or  dost  thou  still,  in  silence  and  secret,  wonder 
To  think  how  the  great  and  terrible  Vartan  fell, 

Oiving  his  enemies'  lives  to  the  shades  of  darkness. 

And  giving  his  spirit  into  the  hands  of  God  ? 
And  thou,  O  River  Deghmoud,  thou  fiowest  lamenting 

Amid  thy  reeds,  sad  river  bestained  with  blood. 


lo8  AA'MEN/AX   rOE.US. 

And  thou,  O  wind  from  Manguran's  upland  blowing, 
Or  Ararat's  sacred  suuunit,  gray-haired  and  hoar, 

Thou,  too,  like  me,  uncertain  and  trembling  movest, 
On  faint  wings  passing  the  mountains  and  valleys  o'er. 

From  forest  to  forest,  from  leaf  to  leaf,  lamenting, 
Thou  comest  upon  the  plains,  in  pale  moonshine, 

To  carry  unto  Armenian  hearts  the  echo 
Of  the  last  sighs  of  this  worn  heart  of  mine. 


Nightingale,  voice  of  the  night,  little  soul  of  the  roses, 
Friend  of  all  mournful  hearts  that  with  sorrow  are 
sighing  ! 
Sing,    little   nightingale,   sing    me    a   song    from    that 
hillock, 
Sing  with  my  soul  of  Armenia's  heroes  undying  ! 

Thy  voice  in  the  cloister  of  Thaddeus  reached  me  and 
thrilled  me  ; 
My  heart,  that  was  close  to  the  cross,  in  a  reverie 
grave. 
Suddenly  bounded  and  throbbed  ;    from    the  cross   1 
hastened  to  seek  thee  — 
Came   forth  and    found  thee  here,  on  the  field  of 
Vartan  the  brave. 

Nightingale,  this  is  the  tale  that  of  thee  our  fathers 
have  told  us  : 
That    Avarair's  nightingale,   singing    so    sweetly    at 
daylight's  dim  close. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  OF  AVARAIR.  ioq 

Is  not  a  bird,  but  a  soul, — it  is  Eghiche's    sweet-voiced 
spirit, 
That  sees  the  image  of  Vartan  for  aye  in  the  red- 
blooming  rose. 

In  winter  he  walks  alone,  and  mourns  in  the  midst  of 
the  desert; 
In  spring  comes  to  Avarair,  to  the  bush  with  roses 
aflame. 
To  sing  and  to  call  aloud,  with  Eghiche's  voice,  upon 
Vartan, 
To  see  whether  Vartan  perchance  will  answer  when 
called  by  his  name. 

If  like  the  voice  of  a  nightingale  faint  and  weary, 
Sons  of  Togarmah,  my  voice  shall  reach  your  ears,— 

Sons  of  the  great,  whose  valiant  and  virtuous  fathers 
Filled  plains,   books,   and   the   heavens,   in  former 
years, — 

If  one  small  drop  of  blood  from  Armenia's  fountain. 
The  fount  of  Bahlav,  flow  into  your  bosoms'  sea, — 

If  you  would  that  your  country's  glories  for  you  be 
written, 
Come  forth  to  Ardaz  with  your  Patriarch,  come  with 


'  An  Armenian  historian  of  the  fifth  century,  a  contemporary  of 
\'artan.  In  his  history  of  the  Persian  invasion  he  compares  Vartan 
drenched  in  his  blood,  to  the  red  rose. 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


A  SONG  OF  fathp:rland. 

IE  are  the  sons  of  valiant  men,  Armenians  great 
and  free  ; 
Our  grandsires  were  descended  from  a  hero- 
ancestry  ; 
Our  fathers  brave  on  Ararat  were  strong    to  draw  the 

bow  ; 
Our  Haig,  the  son  of  Japhet,  laid  haughty  Nimrod  low. 
From  mountains  high,  from  giants  proud,  this  race  of 

warriors  starts. 
Then,  ardent  brothers,  let  us  possess  Armenian  hearts  ! 

Lift  up  your  eyes   unto   the   heights  that   pierce  the 

heavens  vast, 
The  land  that  was  the  cradle  of  all  nations  in  the  past. 
God  on  free  Ararat  abides,  and  raises  in  the  air. 
To  give  us  hope,  a  temple  built  of  seven  colors  fair. 
Hie  hearts  of  the  Armenians  with  courage  to  inspire. 
He  spans  the  heavens  with  a  wide  and  wondrous  arch 

of  fire. 

No  nation  can  survive  unless  it  glows  with  patriot  flame  ; 
No  son  of  the  Armenian  race  is  worthy  of  his  name 
Unless  to  all  the  virtues  of  his  fathers  he  aspires. 
Then  let  ns,  brothers,  emulotis  of  our  exalted  sires, 


A   SONG   OF  FATJJ/lRLAAn.  m 

Now  gird  ourselves  for  usefulness,  to  serve  in  word  and 

deed. 
To  the  vain  words  of  foreigners  no  more  let  us  give 

heed, 
But  let  the  spirit  bright  of  Haig  sway  all  our  inward 

powers. 
Then,  brothers,  ardent   brothers,   Armenian  souls    lie 

ours  ! 

Brothers,  let  hand  to  hand  be  pressetl,  and  heart  to 

heart,  in  love, 
And  toward  one  common  object  together  let  us  move  ; 
And  let  the  touch  of  fiery  lips  unite  our  minds  in  one, 
While  in  all  hearts  a  common  pulse  shall  beat  in  unison  ! 
Let  us  from  tombs  and  monuments  decipher  and  unfold 
The  glorious  deeds  achieved  by  our  immortal  sires  of  old, 
To  show  to  all  the  nations  round  our  ancestors  of  fame. 
And  show  our  ancestors,  in  us.  sons  worthy  of  their 

name  ! 

To  the  arena,  patriots,  go  forth  and  cry,  "  Behold, 
We  are  the  children  of  those  great  Armenians  of  old  I 
Through  us  a  new  Armenia  in  splendor  shall  arise. 
And  cast  away  the  sombre  veil  that  hid  her  from  men"s 

eyes, 
Armenia,  sit  no  longer  mute  and  hidden  in  the  shade  ! 
Through  us   among   the    nations    shall    thy  name   be 

glorious  made. 
Loyal  until  our  deaths,  for  thee  we  '11  strive  with  heart 

and  hand." 
Then,  brothers,  ardent  brothers,  long  live  our  native 

land  ! 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


WEEP   NOT. 

HV  art  thou  troubled,  wandering  heart  ? 

Why  dost  thou  sigh  with  pain? 
From  whom  do  all  thy  sufferings  come  ? 
Of  whom  dost  thou  complain  ? 


Is  there  no  cure  for  wounds,  no  friend 

To  lend  a  pitying  ear? 
Why  art  thou  troubled,  wandering  heart? 

Weep  not !    See  Jesus  near ! 

Sorrow  and  hardship  are  for  all, 
Though  differing  forms  they  wear. 

The  path  he  gave  us  teems  witii  thorns. 
The  feel  must  suffer  there. 

What  life,  though  but  a  day's  brief  span, 

Is  free  from  pain  and  woe  ? 
'T  is  not  for  mortals  born  in  grief 

To  live  at  ease  below. 

Not  for  the  transient  joys  of  earth 

Thy  heart  to  thee  was  given, 
IJut  for  an  instrument  of  grief, 

To  raise  thy  life  toward  hca\en. 


WEEP  NOT. 

If  joys  be  few,  if  pains  abound, 
If  balms  bring  slow  relief, 

If  vvounds  be  sore  and  nature  weak, 
Thy  earthly  life  is  brief 

This  is  the  vale  of  death  and  ])ain, 
Ordained  for  ancient  sin  ; 

Except  through  anguish,  Eden's  gate 
No  soul  shall  enter  in. 


Justice  ordained  it ;  mercy  then 
Made  it  more  light  to  bear. 

Unasked  by  thee,  Christ  sweetened  it, 
His  love  infusing  there. 


From  heaven's  height  he  hastened  down, 

Pitying  thy  trouble  sore  ; 
With  thee  a  servant  he  became. 

Himself  thv  wounds  he  bore. 


He  tilled  his  cup  celestial 
Full  of  thy  tears  and  pain, 

And  tremblingly,  yet  freely. 
He  dared  the  dre<is  to  drain. 


Remembering  this,  wilt  thou  not  drink 
Thy  cup  of  tears  and  care  ? 

'T  is  proffered  by  thy  Saviour's  hand, 
His  love  is  mingled  there. 
8 


113 


.14 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

He  feels  and  pities  all  thy  woes, 
He  wipes  away  each  tear  ; 

Love  he  distils  into  thy  griefs ; 
Weep  not,  for  he  is  near  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   CHRIST-CHILD. 

BY   SAINT    GREGORY    OK    NAKEK    (BOKN    95 1  ;    1J[ED    lOIl). 


HE  lips  of  the  Christ-chikl  are   like   to   twin 

leaves ; 
They  let  roses  fall  when  he  smiles  tenderly. 
The   tears   of   the    Christ-child   are    pearls    when    he 

grieves  ; 
The  eyes  of  the  Christ-child  are  deep  as  the  sea. 
Like  pomegranate  grains  are  the  dimples  he  hath, 
And  clustering  lilies  spring  up  in  his  path. 


Il6  ARMENIA.\    rOEMS. 


HYMN. 

BV    XERSES    THE   GRACEFUL    (BOR.N    II02;    DIED    II72). 


DAY-SPRING,  Sun  of  righteou.sness,  shine 

forth  with  light  for  me  ! 
Treasure  of  mercy,  let  my  soul  thy  hidden 

riches  see  ! 


I'hou  before  whom  the  thoughts  of  men  lie  open  in 

thy  sight, 
L'nto  my  soul,  now  dark  and  dim,  grant  thoughts  that 

shine  with  light .' 

O   Father,  Son,   and    Holy   Ghost,   Almighty  One  in 

Three, 
Care-taker  of  all  creatures,  have  pity  upon  me  ! 

Awake,  O  Lord,  awake  to  help,  with  grace  and  power 

divine  ; 
Awaken  those  who  slumber  now,  like  heaven's  host  to 

shine  ! 

O  Lord  and   Saviour,  life-giver,  unto    the    dead   give 

life. 
And  raise  up  those  that  have  grown  weak  and  stumbled 

in  the  strife  .' 


HYMN. 


117 


O  skilful  Pilot!   Lamp  of  light,  that  burnt-st  bright  and 

clear  ! 
Strength  and  assurance  grant  to  me.  now  hid  away  in 

fear  ! 

O   thou  that  makest  old  things  new,  renew  me  and 

adorn  ; 
Rejoice    me    with   salvation.    Lord,  for  which    I    inly 

mourn. 

Giver  of  good,  unto  my  sins  be  thy  forgiveness  given  I 
Lead  thy  disciples,  heavenly  King,  unto  the  flocks  of 
heaven  ! 

Defeat  the  evil  husbandman   thai    soweth  lares  and 

weeds ; 
Wither  and  kill  in  me  the  fruits  of  all  his  evil  seeds  ! 

O  Lord,  grant  water  to  my  eyes,  that  they  may  shed 

warm  tears 
To  cleanse  and  wash  awav  the   sin   that  in   my  soul 

appears  ! 

On  me  now  hid  in  shadow  deep,  shine  forth,  O  glory 

bright ! 
Sweet  juice,  quench  thou  my  soul's  keen  thirst !    Show 

me  the  path  of  light ! 

Jesus,  whose  name  is  love,  with  love  crush  thou  my 

stony  heart  ; 
Bedew  my  spirit   witli  thy  blood,  and  bid   my  griefs 

depart  I 


llS  AhW/EA'/AX  POEMS. 

O  thou  that  even   in  fancy  art  so  sweet.  Lord  Jesus 

Christ, 
Grant  that  with  thy  reality  my  soul  may  be  sufficed  ! 

When  thou  shalt  come  again  to  earth,  and  all  thy  glory 

see, 
Upon  that  dread  and  awful  day,  O  Christ,  remember 

me  ! 

Thou    that   redeemest   men   from   sin,  O   Saviour,    I 

implore, 
Redeem   him  who   now  praises  thee,  to    praise    thee 

evermore  ! 


LOVE  SONG. 


119 


LOVE   SONG. 

BV    SAJfAT    NOVA    (bOKX    1712;    DIED    1795). 

SIGH  not,  while  thou  art  my  soul !    Fair  one, 

thou  art  to  me 
A  golden  cup.  with  water  filled   of  immor- 
tality. 
I  sit  me  down,  that   over  me   may   fall  thy  shadow, 

sweet ; 
Thou  art  a  gold-embroidered  tent  to  shield  me  from 

the  heat. 
First  hear  my  fault,  and,  if  thou  wilt,  then  slay  this 

erring  man  ; 
Thou  hast  all  power ;  to  me  thou  art  the  Sultan  and 
the  Khan. 

Tliy  waist  is  like  a  cypress-tree,  sugar  thy  tongue,  in 

sooth ; 
Thy  lip  is   candy,  and   thy    skin  like  Frankish   satin 

smooth. 
Thy  teeth  are  pearls  and  diamonds,  the  gates  of  dulcet 

tones ; 
Thine    eyes   are   gold-enamelled   cups   adorned   with 

precious  stones. 
Thou  art  a  rare  and  priceless  gem.  most  wonderful  to 

see  ; 
A  ruby  rich  of  Mt.  Bedakhsh,  my  love,  thou  art  to  me. 


I20  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

How  can  I  bear  this  misery,  unless  my  heart  were  stone  ? 
My  tears  are   blood  because  of  thee,  my  reason    is 

o'erthrovvn. 
A  young  vine  in  the  garden  fresh  thou  art  to  me.  my 

fair. 
Enshrined    in    greenness,   and   set    round   with   roses 

everywhere. 
I,  like  the  love-lorn  nightingale,  would  hover  over  thee. 
A  landscape  of  delight  and  love,  my  queen,  thou  art  to 

me  I 

Lo,  I  am  drunken  with  thy  love  !  I  wake,  but  my 
heart  sleeps. 

The  world  is  sated  with  the  world  ;  my  heart  its  hun- 
ger keeps. 

Wiiat  shall  I  praise  thee  by,  when  naught  is  left  on 
earth  save  thee  ? 

Thou  art  a  deer,  a  Pegasus  sprung  from  the  fiery  sea  ! 

Speak  but  one  word,  to  say  thou  art  Sai'at  Nova's  '  love. 
And   then   what   matters    aught    to    me,    in    earth    or 

heaven  above? 
Thy  rays  have  tilled  the  world  ;   thou  art  a  shield  that 

fronts  the  sun. 
Thou   dost  exhale   the   {jerfunic    sweet  of   clove   and 

cinnamon. 
Of  violet,  rose,  and  marjoram  ;  to  me,  with  love  grown 

pale, 
Thou  art  a  red  flower  of  the  field,  a  lily  of  the  vale  ! 

'  \w  .Armenian  niin.>>trel  often  weaves  hi.^  name  into  the  last 
stanza  of  his  song,  in  order  that  he  may  be  known  as  its  com- 
poser.    'Ilie  same  peculiarity  ajjpears  in  the  m.-xt  poem. 


A    GOOD   COMRADE.  x2\ 


A  GOOD   COMRADE. 

GOOD  comrade,  beautiful  and  virtuous, 
Lights  man's  face  up,  like  a  bright  sun-ray. 

When  a  man  has  with  him  a  true  comrade, 
Dark  night  passes  like  a  sunny  day. 


Sacrifice  is  nothing  \  a  kind  comrade 
Is  the  spirit's  lamp  of  light  and  fire. 

A  good  friend,  a  true,  God-fearing  comrade, 
Leads  man  ever  upward,  high  and  higher. 

When  our  enemies  attack  us  fiercely, 
A  brave  comrade  is  a  sword  in  fight. 

Whoso  has  a  true  friend,  singer  Djivan, 
Never  shall  one  hair  of  his  turn  white. 


f 


122  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE   YOUTH    AND   THE    STREAMLET. 


OWN  from  yon  distant  mountain 
The  streamlet  finds  its  way, 
And  through  the  quiet  village 
It  flows  in  eddying  play. 


A  dark  youth  left  his  doorway, 

And  sought  the  water-side, 
And,  laving  there  his  hands  and  brow. 

"  O  streamlet  sweet !  "  he  cried, 

"  Say,  from  what  mountain  com'st  thou  ? 

"  From  yonder  mountain  cold 
Where  snow  on  snow  lies  sleeping, 

The  new  snow  on  the  old."" 

"  Unto  what  river,  tell  me, 

Fair  streamlet,  dost  thou  flow  ?  " 

"  I  flow  unto  that  river 

Where  clustering;  violets  grow." 

"  Sweet  streamlet,  to  what  vineyard, 
Say,  dost  thou  take  thy  way  ?  " 

"  The  vineyard  where  the  vine-dresser 
Is  at  his  work  to-dav." 


THE    YOUTH  AND    THE  STREAMLET. 


123 


"  What  plant  there  wilt  thou  water  ? " 

"  The  plant  upon  whose  roots 
The  lambs  feed,  where  the  wind-flower  blooms, 

And  orchards  ])ear  sweet  fruits." 

"  What  garden  wilt  thou  visit, 

O  water  cool  and  fleet  ?  " 
"  The  garden  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  tenderly  and  sweet." 

'•'  Into  what  fountain  flow'st  thou  ?  " 

"  The  fountain  to  whose  brink 
Thy  love  comes  down  at  morn  and  eve, 

And  bends  her  face  to  drink. 

"  There  shall  I  meet  the  maiden 

Who  is  to  be  tliy  bride. 
And  kiss  her  chin,  and  with  her  love 

My  soul  be  s.ntisfied." 


124  ARMENJAN  POEMS. 


THE    LAKE   OF   VAN. 

BY    "  RAFFI  "    (MELIK    HAGOPIAn). 

PEAK,  O  lake  !  why  are  thy  waters  silent  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  lament  with  luckless  me  ? 
Move,  ye  zephyrs,  move  the  rippling  wavelets  ! 
With  this  lake  my  tears  shall  mingled  be. 


'iell  me.  lake,  —  for  thou  hast  been  a  witness 
Of  our  history  from  the  earliest  day,  — 

Shall  Armenia,  that  was  once  a  garden. 
Always  be  a  thorny  desert  gray  ? 

Shall  our  hapless  fatherland  forever 
By  a  foreign  master  be  down-trod  ? 

Are  the  Armenians  and  their  sons  unworthy, 
Judged  before  the  righteous  throne  of  God  ? 

Is  a  glad  day  coming,  when  a  banner 

Shall  on  Ararat  its  folds  expand. 
And  from  every  side  Armenian  pilgrims 

Hasten  to  their  beauteous  fatherland  ? 


\ 


i^ 


THOU  AND  J, 


"5 


THOU  AND   I. 

WOULD  I  were  the  lake,  so  blue  and  calm, 
And  thou,  fair  maiden,  with  reluctant  pride, 

Wouldst  see  thy  picture,  delicate  and  faint, 
Thy  sacred  image,  in  my  depths  abide. 


Or  would  that  on  the  shore  a  willow  grew. 

And  thou  mighist  lean  on  it,  and  the  frail  tree 

Might  let  thee  fall  into  the  lake,  and  there 
Sway  with  its  waters  everlastingly  ! 

I  would  I  were  the  forest,  dark  and  vast, 

And  that  thou  there  mightst  come  to  muse  alone, 

And,  ere  I  knew  it,  I  might  overhear 
What  thy  lips  murmur  in  an  undertone. 

Or  would  that  thou  mightst  sit  beneath  a  tree, 
Singing  a  pure,  sweet  song  ;  and  leaf  and  bough. 

With  admiration  trembling,  would  descend 
And  form  a  coronal  to  wreathe  thy  brow. 

I  would  I  were  the  face  of  the  dark  sky. 

That  so  from  heaven  I  might  shake  down  on  thee 

A  multitude  of  stars,  as  't  were  my  tears  ; 
Ah,  do  not  tread  upon  them  scornfully  ! 


126  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Would  I  the  writer  were,  and  thou  the  theme  ! 

Would  thou  affection  wert,  and  I  the  heart ! 
I  the  bouquet,  and  thou  its  silken  string ; 

When  thou  art  loosed,  the  flowers  will  fall  apart. 

Oh,  would  I  were  a  lover  of  sweet  song, 
And  thou  my  lyre,  angel  for  whom  I  pine  ! 

And  that  thy  chords  beneath  my  unskilled  hands 
Might  vibrate  till  thy  heart  responds  to  mine  ! 


TO  MY  SWEETHEART. 


127 


TO    MY   SWEETHEART. 


BY    KRIKOR    KOUTCHARIAN. 


HEN  my  glance  wanders  to  the  far-off  deeps, 
Beauteous  and  infinite,  of  the  blue  skies, 
Behind  transparent  cloud-veils,  fold  on  fold, — 
Then  I  recall  your  melancholy  eyes. 


When  from  the  delicate  light  clouds  descends 
The  fresh,  cool  dew  of  morning,  and  appears, 

Like  a  bright  veil,  upon  the  red-cheeked  rose, 
I  think  of  your  deep  eyes,  those  lakes  of  tears. 

When  the  fair  rainbow  with  its  splendid  hues 
Has  in  its  arch  the  height  of  heaven  embraced, 

I  wish  I  were  its  owner  and  its  lord. 

That  I  might  gird  with  it  your  dainty  waist. 

When  the  stars,  bright  and  dazzling,  glow  like  fire, 
And  with  their  gems  the  midnight  heaven  deck. 

My  heart's  pangs  are  more  numerous  than  they, 
That  they  should  not  adorn  your  breast  and  neck. 

My  tender  love,  my  sweetheart  fair  to  see, 
Now  parted  from  my  arms  fore  verm  ore, 

She  is  my  hapless  fair  Armenia, 

Whom  I  have  loved,  and  ever  shall  adore. 


128  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  CHRAGHAN   PALACE. 

BY    T.    TERZYAN. 

TJLTJlAVE  you  ever  seen  that  wondrous  building, 
fSi  H       Whose    white    shadows  in  the  blue   wave 
jiSiS  sleep  ? 

There  Carrara  sent  vast  mounds  of  marble, 
And  Propontis,  beauty  of  the  deep. 

From  the  tombs  of  centuries  awaking, 

Souls  of  every  clime  and  every  land 
Have  poured  forth  their  rarest  gifts  and  treasures 

Where  those  shining  halls  in  glory  stand. 

Ships  that  pass  before  that  stately  palace, 

Gliding  by  with  open  sails  agleam, 
In  its  shadow  pause  and  gaze,  astonished, 

Thinking  it  some  Oriental  dream. 

New  its  form,  more  wondrous  than  the  Gothic, 

Than  the  Doric  or  Ionic  fair ; 
At  command  of  an  Armenian  genius  ^ 

Did  the  master  builder  rear  it  there. 

1  The  late  Ilagop  Iky  Halian. 


THE    CH RAG  HAN  PALACE. 


129 


By  the  windows,  rich  with  twisted  scroll-work, 

Rising  upward,  marble  columns  shine, 
And  the  sunbeams  lose  iheir  way  there,  wandering 
Where  a  myriad  ornaments  entwine. 

An  immortal  smile,  its  bright  reflection 

In  the  water  of  the  blue  sea  lies, 
And  it  shames  Granada's  famed  Alhambra, 

O'er  whose  beauty  wondering  bend  the  skies. 

Oft  at  midnight,  in  the  pale,  faint  starlight, 
When  its  airy  outline,  clear  and  fair, 

On  the  far  horizon  is  depicted, 

With  its  trees  and  groves  around  it  there, 

You  can  fancy  that  those  stones  grow  living, 
And,  amid  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

Change  to  lovely  songs,  to  which  the  spirit, 
Dreaming,  listens  with  a  vague  delight. 

Have  you  ever  seen  that  wondrous  building 
Whose  white  shadows  in  the  l)lue  wave  sleep? 

There  Marmora  sent  vast  mounds  of  marble, 
And  Propontis.  beauty  of  the  deep. 

It  is  not  a  mass  of  earthly  matter, 

Not  a  work  from  clay  or  marble  wrought ; 

From  the  mind  of  an  Armenian  genius 
Stands  embodied  tliere  a  noble  thought. 


130 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE   WANDERING   ARMENIAN   TO   THE 
SWALLOW. 

BY   C.    A.    TOTOCHIAN. 


SWALLOW,  gentle  swallow, 
Thou  lovely  bird  of  spring ! 

Say,  whither  art  thou  flying 
So  swift  on  gleaming  wing? 


Fly  to  my  birthplace,  Ashdarag, 

The  spot  I  love  the  best ; 
Beneath  my  father's  roof-tree, 

O  swallow,  build  thy  nest. 

There  dwells  afar  my  father, 

A  mournful  man  and  gray, 
Who  for  his  only  son's  return 

Waits  vainly,  day  by  day. 

If  thou  shouldst  chance  to  see  him. 
Greet  him  with  love  from  me  ; 

Bid  him  sit  down  and  mourn  with  tears 
His  son's  sad  destiny. 


TO    THE  SWALLOW. 

In  poverty  and  loneliness, 

Tell  hitn,  my  days  are  passed : 

My  life  is  only  half  a  life, 
My  tears  are  falling  fast. 

To  me,  amid  bright  daylight, 

The  sun  is  dark  at  noon  ; 
To  my  wet  eyes  at  midnight 

Sleep  comes  not,  late  or  soon. 

Tell  him  that,  like  a  beauteous  flower 

Smit  by  a  cruel  doom, 
Uprooted  from  my  native  soil, 

I  wither  ere  my  bloom. 

Fly  on  swift  wing,  dear  swallow, 
Across  the  quickening  earth, 

And  seek  in  fair  Armenia 
The  village  of  my  birth  ! 


131 


132 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


SONG  OF  REVOLUTION. 

F  on  the  ocean  tempest-tossed 
My  shattered  bark  be  wrecked  and  lost, 
Amid  the  wild  and  raging  sea 
All  hope  shall  not  depart  from  me. 


With  all  my  power,  with  steadfast  will, 
I  '11  wage  a  swimmer's  battle  still, 
And,  cleaving  mighty  waves  that  roar, 
I'll  urge  my  pathway  toward  the  shore. 

And  if  in  this  unequal  strife 
My  powers  succumb,  and  fails  my  life,  — 
If  whirling  waves  that  foam  and  hiss 
Shall  whelm  me  in  the  deep  abyss,  — 

One  great,  sweet  thought  shall  serve  to  fill 
My  heart  with  consolation  still : 
That  hero-like  my  spirit  passed, 
Contending  bravely  to  the  last. 


»««pO=*i^ 


THE  LAMENT  OF  MOTHER  ARMENIA. 


^IZ 


THE   LAMENT  OF   MOTHER   ARMENIA, 

|N  alien  lands  they  roam,  my  children  dear ; 
Where   sliall  I   make  appeal,   with  none   to 
hear? 

Where  shall  I  find  them?    Far  away  from  me 
My  sons  serve  others,  thralls  in  slavery. 

Chorus. 

Oh,  come,  my  children,  back  to  me  ! 
Come  home,  your  motherland  to  see  ! 

Ages  have  passed,  no  news  of  them  I  hear ; 
Dead,  dead  are  they,  my  sons  that  knew  not  fear. 
I  weep,  the  blood  is  frozen  in  my  veins ; 
No  one  will  cure  my  sorrows  and  my  pains. 

My  blood  is  failing  and  my  heart  outworn, 
My  face  forever  mournful  and  forlorn  ; 
To  my  dark  grave  with  grief  I  shall  descend, 
Longing  to  see  my  children  to  the  end. 

O  wandering  shepherd,  you  whose  mournful  song 
Rings  through  the  valleys  as  you  pass  along  ! 
Come,  let  us  both,  with  many  a  bitter  tear, 
Weep  for  the  sad  death  of  our  children  dear  ! 


134 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


Crane  of  the  fatherland,  fly  far  away, 
Fly  out  of  sight,  beyond  the  setting  day  ; 
My  last  sad  greetings  to  my  children  bear, 
For  my  life's  hope  has  died  into  despair  ! 


THE  SON  OF  DALVORIG. 


135 


THE  SON   OF   DALVORIG. 

BY    MIHRAN    DAMADIAN. 

BRAVE  son  of  Dalvorig,  Dalvorig's  son  am  I  ; 
Son  am  I  of  the  mountain,  son  am  I  of 
the  rock. 
Not  like  the  timid  dwellers  in  city  walls  am  I ; 

I  am  the  remnant  of  the  old,  the  brave  Armenian 
stock. 
The  brave  son  of  Dalvorig,  Dalvorig's  son  am  I, 

And  in  the  presence  of  the  Turk  I  do  not  cringe  or 
bow  ; 
The  free  son  of  the  rocky  hills,  the  rugged  heights,  am  I  \ 
My  eyes  have  never  looked  upon  the  plough-haft  or 
the  plough. 

Chorus. 

Ho,  my  Armenian  brothers.  Dalvorig's  son  am  I ; 
Oh,  come  to  me,  come  hither,  for  the  love  of  liberty  ! 

When  on  the  world  I  ope'd  my  eyes  I  saw  our  moun- 
tains high, 
Our  rocks  and  cliffs  ;  our  mountains,  our  rocks  and 
cliffs  were  free. 


136 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


Until  I  close  my  eyes  upon  the  darkness  when  I  die, 
Ne'er  shall  the  feet  of  foreigners  tread  here  trium- 
phantly. 
My  mother  gave  me  birth  in  a  narrow,  rocky  gorge, 
The  strong  branch  of  a  walnut  tree  my  cradle-bed 
became  ; 
So  plain  and  simple  was  my  birth,  so   plainly  I  was 
reared. 
My  portion  in  this  earthly  life  is  conflict,  fire,  and 
flame. 


My  feet  are  bare,  my  chest  exposed  ;  but  what  for  that 
care  I, 
If  only  my  young  sister  may  grow  up  free  like  me? 
To  me  the  sunshine  and  the  cold  and  mist  are  all  the 
same, 
So    long   as    here    the  Turk   and    Koord  have   no 
authority. 
My  life  is  hard,  my  life  is  rough  ;   I  never  have  been 
used 
To  dwell  at  ease  in  luxury  and  feed  on  dainty  fare. 
I  do  not  live  in  palace  halls,  my  dwelling  is  the  rock, 
The  tempest  and  the  earthquake  are  my  compan- 
ions there. 

Let  other  men  inhabit  the  valleys  and  the  plains. 
And  with  the  base  and  ruthless  Turk  on  terms  of 
friendship  be  ; 
I  will  remain  unvanquished  forever  and  a  day, 

Even  if  twenty  scjuadrons  should  come  to  vanquish 
me. 


THE  SON  OF  DALVORIG. 


137 


Instead  of  tender   wheaten   bread,  the  millet  is   my 
food; 
I  forge  the  red-hot  iron  day  and  night,  incessantly ; 
I  make  cross-irons  for  griddles,  and  spades  to  till  the 
soil ; 
Men  look  upon  my  lot  in  life  as  hard,  but  I  am 
free. 


High  genius  and  the  homage  of  the  mind  are  not  for 
me ; 
Enough  for  me  it  is  to  have  my  dagger  and  my 
sword  ; 
Enough  for  me  it  is  to  know  that  while  the  mountains 
stand 
No  foreigner  shall  ever  be  my  master  and  my  lord. 
My  arms  my  only  playthings  are  ;  comfort  I  hate,  and 
ease  ; 
A   quiet   and  a  placid  life  upon   me   soon   would 
pall. 
I  love  the  chase,  I  love  the  fight,  I  love  the  fight's 
reward, 
And  I  am  ever  ready  when  comes  the  signal  call. 


When  the  alarm  is  given,  then  fearless  I  start  forth  ; 
The  mountains  of  Sassotm  breathe  a  sigh  and  cry 
aloud  — 
They  cry  aloud,  and  o\er  them  there  spreads  a  crim- 
son stain  ; 
The  red  stain  on  the  mountains,  it  is  their  heroes' 
blood. 


138 


ARMEXIAN  POEMS. 


The  hero's  heart,  the  hero's  hand !      What  does  the 
hero  care 
Although  a  thousand  wounds  and  one  should  pierce 
him,  blow  on  blow  ? 
For  every  blow  men  deal  him,  a  thousand  he  returns  ; 
He  strews  the  earth  with  corpses,  a  banquet  for  the 
crow. 

I    leap  upon   the    mountains  as  leaps    the    mountain 
deer; 
The  thunder  of  my  angry  voice  the  lion's  roar  is 
like  ; 
I  foam   as  foams    the   ocean,   fierce    beating    on   the 
shore  ; 
And  when  I  smite  the  foeman,  as  a  thunderbolt  I 
strike. 
The  stormy  field  of  battle  is  my  portion  in  this  life  ; 
There  either  the  red  sunset  light  shall  see,  in  even- 
ing's breath, 
My  banner  wave  in  victory,  and  give  it  greeting  fair, 
Or  it  shall  see  my  silent  face  set  pale  and  cold  in 
death. 


♦ 


PART  II. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KNIGHT.  141 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   KNIGHT. 

SiAMANTO  (Atom  Yarjanian)  was  born  at  .yen,  Asia  Minor, 
in  1878,  of  prosperous  parents,  who  later  moved  to  Con- 
stantinople. He  was  well  educated.  Abdul  Hamid's  mas- 
sacres made  a  dcjp  impression  on  him.  He  sympathized 
with  the  revolutionary  movement,  and  left  Constantinople. 
Thrown  upon  his  own  resources  by  his  father's  death, 
he  led  the  life  of  a  poor  student  in  Paris,  Vienna,  Zurich 
and  Lausanne.  When  the  new  constitution  was  proclaimed 
in  Turkey,  he  returned  to  Constantinople,  devoted  himself  to 
writing,  and  sup[)orled  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 
A  volume  of  poems  published  in  1902  under  the  pen  name  of 
Siamanto  had  made  liim  famous,  and  other  volumes  followed. 
After  the  Adana  massacres  he  came  to  America  and  spent  a 
year  in  Boston,  editing  the  Armenian  paper  Hairenik.  He 
then  returned  to  Constantinople,  and  he  is  believed  to  have 
been  among  the  group  of  educated  and  influential  Armenians 
of  that  city  who  were  massacred  in  1915,  after  barbarous 
tortures.  Siamanto  was  a  man  of  lovable  character,  and  is 
considered  one  of  the  greatest  Armenian  poets. 

HE  sun  is  up,  the  hour  has  come  for  starting, 
O  my  steed! 
A  moment  wait  till  I  pass  my  foot  through 
thy  stirrup  glittering  clear. 
I  read  my  Aim   in  thy  shining  eyes,  that  know  and 
understand. 
Oh,  joy  of  joys!  Oh,  blest  be  thou,  my  steed,  my 
steed  so  dear! 

My  body  still  is  firm  and  light  with  the  joy  and  spring  of 
youth, 
And  on  thy  saddle  I  shall  perch  like  an  eagle,  proud 
and  free. 


142  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

The  golden  oats  that  I  gave  to  thee  in  plenty,  O  my 
steed! 
Have  made  mad  life  through  thy  form  flame  up;  how 
fleet  thy  course  will  be! 

Galloping    thou    wilt    fly   along,    fly    ever    upon   thy 
way. 
And  sparks  from  the  strokes  of  thy  brazen  shoes  will 
blossom  as  we  go  past. 
Let  us  grow  drunk  with  our  rapid  course  like  heroes, 
O  my  steed! 
And,  infinitely  winged  like  the  wind,  drink  in  the 
blast! 

The   boundless   space   before   thy   pace   recedes   and 
disappears, 
The  sinful  cities  with   all  their  crimes  bow  down 
beneath  thy  tread. 
Black  flocks  of  crows  that   tremble  thy  swiftness  to 
behold 
Are  seeking  shelter  in  the  clouds,  the  thick  clouds 
overhead. 

The  sad  earth  seems  below  us  and  we  up  among  the 
stars; 
Thou  no  abyss  nor  downward  slope  dost  heed,  with 
eyes  aflame; 
There   is    no    obstacle,   no   rock   that   can    thy    flight 
impede; 
Impatient,  fain  wouldst  thou  attain  the  summit  of 
the  Aim. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KNIGHT.  143 

My  fleet,  fleet  steed!     My  idol  of  snow-white  marble 
fair! 
With  all  my  soul  I  worship  thee!     As  on  our  course 
we  fly, 
My  dreamy  brow  is  burning  with  the  flames  of  mine 
Ideal; 
Oh,  spur  me  onward  to  my  Aim!     Slave  of  thy  foot- 
steps I! 

I  am  the  slave  of  thy  fleet  steps,  child  of  the  hurricane! 
Speed  on,  athirst  for  vengeance,  O  swift,  swift  steed  of 
mine! 
A  needless  halt  I  spurn  and  hate,  with  all  my  anger's 
might. 
Ours  are  the  summits,  and  the  wreath  of  victory  is 
thine ! 

Thy  delicate  cream-white  body  boils  with  thine  ardent 
fire  of  life; 
Thy  tail  is  a  cataract ;  rushing  down,  like  a  hurricane 
it  blows. 
Within  thine  eyes,  so  bright  and  keen,  there  shine  two 
flaming  stars; 
The  ring  of  thy  swift  shoes  forges  fear,  as  onward 
our  journey  goes. 

I  told  thee  that  I  am  thy  slave,  for  liberty  athirst. 
Oh,  bear  me  swiftly  toward  the  South,  away  from 
this  frontier! 
We  shall  be  clothed  with  suns  and  blood,  beyond  the 
stately  heights 
Of  Ararat  and  Aragatz.     Speed  on,  my  courser  dear! 


144  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

I  hold  no  whip  within  my  hand,  my  courser,  thou  art  free; 

Upon  thy  back,  that  glistens  like  a  lily  white  and  fair, 
I  only  shed  sweet  touches  of  my  fingers  as  we  go. 

They  touch  thy  bright  flesh  like  a  stream  of  honey 
dropping  there. 

Thou  hast  no  bridle  upon  thy  neck,  no  bit  within  thy 
mouth; 
Enough  for  me  one  wave  of  hair  from  thy  full  mane 
backward  flung. 
I  have  no  need  of  stirrup-irons  for  my  feet  to  grip  thy 
sides; 
A  silver  saddle  thou  hast  alone,  a  saddle  with  pearls 
bestrung. 

For  my  native  valleys  I  yearn,  I  yearn,  the  valleys 
that  hold  my  home, 
But  halt  thou  never,  my  courser  swift,   the  star- 
strewn  heavens  below ! 
Away  by  the  mouths  of  caverns  deep  like  a  shadow 
thou  must  pass, 
From    forests,    vineyards    and    gardens    green    still 
farther  and  farther  go. 

Who  knows,  perchance  a  maiden  fair  by  the  side  of  a 
running  brook 
Might  hand  me  a  cluster  of  golden  grapes,  and  proffer 
a  draught  of  wine; 
My  soul  might  understand  her,  and  she  like  a  sister 
smile  on  me — 
But  I  do  not  wish  to  be  lost  in  dreams;  halt  not,  swift 
steed  of  mine! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KNIGHT.  145 

Thou  wilt  pass  by  the  shadowy  bowers  of  my  birth- 
place, Eden-fair; 
The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  fain  would  I  drink 
her   song! 
The  rose-scent,  on  my  pilgrimage,  I  have  dreamed  of 
many  a  year. 
Oh,  how  my  heart  is  yearning!  But  halt  not,  speed 
along. 

And  in  my  pathway  haply  old  corpses  might  arise, 
Their  shrouds  upon  their  shoulders,  their  hands  held 
out  to  me, 
Approach  me — me  the  wretched! — and  breathe  upward 
to  mine  ear 
Their  loves  and  vengeance  ne'er  to  be  forgot — but 
onward  flee! 

I  shudder  at  the  ruins  and  at  barren,  helpless  pangs. 

My  courser,  near  the  ashes  of  the  cities  make  no  stay! 

Oh,  tears,  the  tears  of  others,  they  choke  me  without 

ruth; 

The  woe,  the  griefs  of  others  drive  me  mad,  upon  my 

way! 

Oh,   do   not   halt,   my   courser,   where   these   corpses 
scattered  lie! 
Fly  far  away  from  graveyards,  where  white  shades  of 
dead  men  be. 
I  cannot  bear,  I  tell  thee,  I  cannot  bear  again 

The  death  of  my  dear  native  land  with  anguished 
eyes  to  see! 


146  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Behold  the  landscape  of  the  place  in  which  I  had  my 
birth! 
At  sight  of  it  my  longing  glance  with  tears  grows 
moist  and  glows. 
But  yet  I  would  not  shed  them;  nay,  do  not  pause  or 
stay, 
My  steed,  my  steed  of  swiftest  flight!     My  Aim  no 
weakness  knows. 

Lo!  'tis  Euphrates  sounding.     Why,  river,  dost  thou 
roar? 
Thy  son  is  passing.     Why  so  dark  the  flood  thy  shore 
that  laves? 
I  am  thy  son.     Oh,  do  not  rage!     Hast  thou  forgotten 
me? 
I  with  thy  current  would  speed  on,  and  would  out- 
strip thy  waves. 

The  memory  of  my  childhood  draws  from  me  tears  of 
blood; 
A  dreamy  youth  who  used  to  stray  along  these  banks 
of  thine. 
All  full  of  hope,  with  sunlight  mad,  and  happy  with  his 
dreams — 
But  ah!  what  am  I  saying?      Pause  not,  swift  steed 
of  mine! 

Behold  the  glorious  autumn,  which  vaguely  dies  around ! 

Upon  my  brow  a  yellow  leaf  has  fallen  like  a  dream. 
Is  it  my  death  it  stands  for,  or  the  crowning  of  my  faith? 

What  matter?  On,  my  neighing  steed,  sweep  onward 
with  the  stream! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KNIGHT.  147 

Perchance  it  was  the  last  sere  leaf  of  my  ill-omened 
fate 
That  fell  upon  us  even  now.     What  matter?    Speed 
away! 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  land  arc  echoing  the  words, 
"Ideal,  O  free-born  Ideal,  halt  not,   halt  not  nor 
stay!" 

I  worship  thee!     Now  like  a  star  thou  shootest  on  thy 
course; 
Thou  art  as  fleet,  thou  art  as  free,  as  is  the  light- 
ning's flame; 
And  through  the  wind  and  with  the  wind  like  eagles 
now  we  soar. 
I  am  thy  knight,  I  am  thy  slave;  oh,  lift  me  to  my  Aim! 

Down  from  the  summits  of  the  rocks,  the  dread  and 
cloudy  peaks. 
The  cataracts,  the  cataracts  are  falling  in  their  might! 
Their  currents  white  are  pure,  my  steed,  as  thine  own 
snow-white  form. 
And  their  imperious  downward  sweep  is  savage  as  thy 
flight. 

But  why  now  doth  a  shudder  through  all  thy  body  run? 
Oh,  what  has  chanced,  my  hero?     Why  do  thy  looks 
grow  dark? 
Oh,  turn  thine  eyes  away  from  me,  thine  eyes  with 
trouble  filled; 
Past  the  horizons  fly  along,  fly  like  a  wind-borne 
bark! 


148         .  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

I  heard  the  wailing  and  the  cries,  entreaties  and  laments, 
From  ruined  huts  and  cities  that  reached  us  on  our 
way. 

But  ah!  what  use  in  pausing  all  powerless  before  pain? 
Our  task  is  to  relieve  it;  then  do  not  halt  nor  stay. 

Through  the  death-agony,  my  steed,  we  passed  with 
tearless  eyes. 
Oh,  do  not  halt!    Oh,  do  not  stay!    Brave  be  that 
heart  of  thine! 
From  this  time  onward,  I  will  burn  Hope's  torches 
blazing  bright. 
To  halt  means  death  to  us;  pause  not,  O  gallant 
steed  of  mine! 

Aloft  on  thy  galloping  form,  full  oft,  in  our  journey  ere 
to-day 
I  have  heard  how  thy  swift,  spark-scattering  hoofs, 
as  ever  we  forward  l1ec. 
Have  many  and  many  a  time  crushed  bones,  that  fell 
beneath  their  tread. 
And  the  skulls  with  their  empty  sockets  dark  gazed 
at  me — didst  thou  see? 

I  tell  thee,  under  thy  shoes  I  heard  the  skeletons  break 
and  crash. 
But  I  kept  silence.     My  lips  are  dumb.     Halt  not, 
halt  not,  my  steed! 
I  will  bury  my  sobs  and  sighs  of  grief  in  my  soul's 
abysmal  depths. 
Let  nothing  live  but  my  anger  hot !     Pause  not,  but 
onward  speed! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KNIGHT.  149 

Oh,  pause  not,  falter  not  in  thy  course,  wild  creature 
of  marble  white! 
Tears  will  not  banish  the  Pain  of  Life,  nor  drive 
out  its  woe  and  wrong. 
Nay,  the  Ideal  shall  toll,  shall  toll  the  bells  of  glo.ving 
wrath. 
The  cranes,  far  flying,  will  call  to  us;  oh,  follow  their 
distant  song! 

But  where  does  thy  path  lead?     What  is  this?     IVIy 
steed,  hast  thou  lost  thy  mind? 
The  ashes!     Oh,  the  desolate  plains  of  ashes  and 
ruins  gray ! 
Like  fog  the  gray  dust  rises  up  to  stifle  and  choke  our 
breath. 
Oh,  tear  thy  w-ay  through  these  frightful  mounds, 
break  through  them  and   speed  away! 

Lift  up  thy  forehead,  lift  up  thine  eyes,  let  me  cover 
them  with  my  hand ! 
Halt  not,  'tis  the  Crimson,  the  Crimson  dread;  red 
blood  beneath  us  lies. 
Across  my  face  to  blind  mine  eyes  I  have  pulled  my 
fluttering  scarf; 
Halt  not!     What  good  would  it  do,  my  steed,  to 
pause  here  with  useless  sighs? 

Ah,  once,  accompanied  by  my  griefs,   my  lyre  shed 
tears  of  blood; 
Weeping  I  hate  from  this  time  on;  thou  only  art  my 
soul. 


ISO  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Thou  breathest  battle,  for  glory  keen,  and  I  am  thy 
prince,  thy  slave! 
Thy  form  was  worshipped  by  glorious  Greece.     Oh, 
lift  me  to  my  Goal! 

The  sound  of  the  wind  is  like  a  horn  that  is  winded 
far  away; 
The  forests,  ranged  like  troops  of  war,  stood  ready  as 
we  passed. 
At  the  wild  ringing  of  thy  hoofs,  old  hopes  like  giants 
woke; 
Old  laws  are  crushed,  old  tears  are  shed,  old  sounds 
are  dying  fast. 

And  in  thy  flight,  at  daybreak,  on  a  lofty  table-land. 
New  giants,  new  insurgents,  new  heroes  we  shall  spy. 

The  sons  of  suffering  are  they,  who  in  this  hostile  age 
Were  born  in  blood,  are  wroth  with  blood,  and  wish 
in  blood  to  die. 

When   we   see   columns   rolling   up,    armed   with   the 
hurricane, 
We  by  their  side  will  march  along  the  pathway  to  the 
Aim. 
Of  glory  and  the  crowning  of  the  martyrs  I  shall  sing; 
My  lyre  will  play,  that  gallant  day,  my  Torches  burn 
and  flame! 

The  day  has  dawned,  has  dawned  at  last!     I  am  thy 
knight,  thy  slave! 
The  slope  is  difficult  and  steep,  but,  breathing  heavily, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KNIGHT.  151 

Thou  must  fly  on — one  effort  more,  amid  the  fires  of 
morn! 
I  am  athirst  for  victory,  my  noble  steed,  like  thee. 

A  few  more  ringing  steps,  my  steed,  and  one  last  bound! 
and  then 
What  a  procession,  what  a  host,  all  glad  and  full  of 
might ! 
'Tis  Freedom's  pioneers;  their  swords  flash  out  life- 
giving  rays. 
And  Brotherhood  they  celebrate  in  morning's  glorious 
light. 

Here  may'st  thou  halt.     Be  blest,  my  steed!    Worthy 
of  God  art  thou ! 
Tears  fill  my  soul  as  mine  Ideal  I  gaze  on  and  admire. 
Thy  triumph  is  the  mighty  law  of  beauty  infinite. 
Lo,  there  six  sombre  centuries  are  standing,  armed 
with  fire! 

I,  armed  already,  will  arm  thee.     O'er  my  shoulder 
burns  thy  torch. 
They  like  the  tempest  wish  to  walk,  under  the  dawn- 
ing's  glow, 
Laden    with    justice.     Oh,    the    land    is    barren    and 
athirst! 
Lo,  from  our  flight  the  giant  Hope  sparks  in  the 
paths  will  sow! 


152  ARMENIAN   POEMS. 


THE   MOTHER'S   DREAM. 

Let  me  write  now  and  tell  you  of  my  dream. 
It  was  upon  the  midnight  of  All  Saints. 
Sudden  before  me  your  four  brothers  knelt; 
They  wore  no  shrouds,  no  vestiges  of  flesh; 
Groping  in  darkness,  with  abysmal  eyes, 
Weeping  before  their  mother  thus  they  came 
To  tell  their  memories  of  other  days. 

"Mother,  the  dawning  of  the  bygone  days! 

We  four  together,  from  beneath  the  ground, 

Today  have  sought  once  more  your  little  door 

To  tap  on  it,  companioned  by  the  storm. 

Mother,  be  not  afraid,  no  strangers  we! 

And,  lonely  in  your  slumber,  wait  at  least 

And  let  us  watch  your  face  in  death's  dark  night !" 

"Mother,  the  holiness  of  bygone  days! 

Out  of  my  heart,  'neath  our  poor  graveyard's  earth, 

Mother,  a  flower  of  love  for  you  has  grown!" 

"Mother,  the  sweetness  of  the  bygone  days! 
For  you  two  jars  with  my  salt  tears  are  filled." 

"Mother,  the  happiness  of  bygone  days! 
For  you  have  burning  roses,  flowers  of  hope, 
Sprung  into  fiery  blossom  from  my  soul!" 


THE  MOTHER'S   DREAM.  153 

"O  mother,  the  heroic  manliness 

Of  bygone  days!  Out  of  my  breast -bones  now 

Two  shields  for  your  protection  have  been  wrought." 

"Mother,  your  peerless  beauty  in  the  past! 

How  many  furrows  now  have  marked  your  brow!" 

(Thus  spake  your  eldest  brother).     "All  alone 

Under  your  roof-tree,  how  can  you  endure? 

These  seven  years,  we  seven  times  have  tapped 

Upon  your  little  door,  but  till  to-night 

We  never  yet  have  found  the  door  unclosed. 

What  traveler  do  you  await  to-night? 

Behold,  your  fragile  hut  is  tottering, 

Like  to  a  heap  of  mouldering  coffin -boards. 

See  how  the  leaves,  storm-rent,  fall  from  the  trees! 

The  guiltless  doves  are  dying  in  the  brook. 

And  still  upon  the.threshold  of  your  home. 

Mother,  the  black  snakes  lick  our  dried-up  blood. 

The  garden  has  no  leaf,  no  fruit,  no  brier. 

We  four  together  have  been  through  the  hut, 

And  at  the  sight  of  us  our  broken  swords 

Gave  out  once  more  a  single  flash  of  light. 

Empty  the  larder  was,  and  in  the  barn 

A  white  lamb  bleated,  biting  at  its  hoofs. 

Mother,  the  plenty  of  the  bygone  days! 

The  love  and  pity  of  the  bygone  days! 

How  can  you  live  here  in  your  empty  hut. 

Here  in  your  empty  hut  how  can  you  live?" 

The  four  were  mute ;  but  when  I  spoke  your  name 
And  sobbed  tempestuously  in  my  dream, 
They  wildly,  with  bowed  heads,  began  to  weep. 


154-  ARMENIAN   POEMS. 

"But  still,"  I  said,  "your  brother  is  alive — 
The  little  one,  who  did  not  see  you  die. 
It  is  for  him  alone  I  live  to-day." 

Then  they  burst  forth,  and  poured  upon  mine  eyes 

The  terrible  black  tear  drops  of  the  dead. 

"A  brother,  oh,  we  have  a  brother  yet, 

A  brother,  oh,  a  brother  in  the  world! 

Mother,  the  misery  of  coming  days! 

Hereafter,  how  shall  we  to  earth  return? 

Now  how,  oh,  how  shall  we  to  earth  return?" 


^ 


PRAYER. 


IS5 


PRAYER. 

JHE  swans,  in  discouragement,  have  migrated 

from  the  poisonous  lakes  this  evening, 

And  sad  sisters  dream  of  brothers  under  the 

prison  walls. 

Battles  have  ended  on  the  blossoming  fields  of  lilies, 

And    fair   women    follow    coffins    from    underground 

passages, 
And  sing,  with  heads  bowed  down  towards  the  ground. 

Oh,  make  haste!     Our  aching  bodies  are  frozen  in  these 

pitiless  glooms. 
Make  haste  towards  the  chapel,  where  life  will  be  more 

merciful, 
The  chapel  of  the  graveyard  where  our  brother  sleeps! 

An  orphan  swan  is  suffering  within  my  soul, 
And  there,  over  newly-buried  bodies, 
It  rains  blood — it  pours  from  mine  eyes. 

A  crowd  of  cripples  pass  along  the  paths  of  my  heart. 

And  with  them  pass  barefooted  blind  men, 

In  the  divine  hope  of  meeting  some  one  in  prayer. 


iS6  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

And  the  red  dogs  of  the  desert  howled  all  one  night, 
After  hopelessly  moaning  over  the  sands 
For  some  unknown,  incomprehensible  grief. 

And  the  storm  of  my  thoughts  ceased  with  the  rain; 
The  waves  were  cruelly  imprisoned  under  the  frozen 

waters; 
The  leaves  of  huge  oaks,  like  wounded  birds. 
Dropped  with  cries  of  anguish. 

And  the  dark  night  was  deserted,  like  the  vast  infinite; 
And,  with  the  lonely  and  bloody  moon, 
Like  a  myriad  motionless  marble  statues. 
All  the  dead  bodies  of  our  earth  arose  to  pray  for  one 
another. 


VS 


MY  TEARS.  157 


MY  TEARS. 

WAS  alone  with  my  pure-winged  dream  in  the 
valleys  my  sires  had  trod ; 
My  steps   were  light  as  the  fair  gazelle's, 
and  my  heart  with  joy  was  thrilled; 
I  ran,  all  drunk  with  the  deep  blue  sky,  with  the  light 
of  the  glorious  days; 
Mine  eyes  were  filled  with  gold  and  hopes,  my  soul 
with  the  gods  was  filled. 

Basket   on   basket,    the    Summer   rich   presented   her 
fruit  to  me 
From  my  garden's  trees — each  kind  of  fruit  that  to 
our  clime  belongs; 
And  then  from  a  willow's  body  slim,  melodious,  beau- 
tiful, 
A  branch  for  my  magic  flute  I  cut  in  silence,  to  make 
my  songs. 

I  sang;  and  the  brook  all  diamond  bright,  and  the  birds 
of  my  ancient  home, 
And  the  music  pure  from  heavenly  wells  that  fills 
the  nights  and  days. 
And  the  gentle  breezes  and  airs  of  dawn,  like  my  sister's 
soft  embrace, 
United  their  voices  sweet  with  mine,  and  joined  in 
my  joyous  lays. 


158  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

To-night  in  a  dream,  sweet  flute,  once  more  I  took  you 
in  my  hand; 
You  felt  to  my  lips  like  a  kiss — a  kiss  from  the 
days  of  long  ago. 
But  when  those  memories  old  revived,  then   straight- 
way failed  my  breath, 
And  instead  of  songs,   my   tears   began   drop   after 
drop  to  flow. 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  DREAM.  159 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE'S  DREAM. 


^^ 


EAR  after  year,  sitting  alone  at  my  window, 
I  gaze  on  thy  path,  my  pilgrim  heart-mate, 
And  by  this  writing  I  wish  once  more  to  sing 
The  tremors  of  my  body  and  mind,  left  without  a 
guardian. 

Ah!  dost  thou  not  recall  the  sun  on  the  day  of  thy 

departure? 
My  tears  were  so  plentiful  and  my  kisses  so  ardent. 
Thy  promises  were  so  good  and  thy  return  was  to  be 

so  early! 
Dost  thou  not  recall  the  sun  and  my  prayers  on    the 

day  of  thy  departure, 
When  I  sprinkled  water  on  the  shadow  of  thy  steed 

from  my  water-jar, 
That  the  seas  might  open  before  thee. 
And  the  earth  might  bloom  beneath  thy  feet? 

Ah,  the  sun  of  the  day  of  thy  departure  has  changed  to 

black  night, 
And  the  tears  of  waiting,  beneath  the  shower  of  so 

many  years, 
Have  poured  from  mine  eyes  like  stars  on  my  cheeks, 
And  behold!  their  roses  have  withered. 

It  is  enough.     Through  longing  for  thee,  I  feel  like 

plucking  out  my  hair; 
I  am  still  under  the  influence  of  the  wine  of  thy  cup, 


i6o  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

And  a  mourner  for  thy  absent  superb  stature; 

And,  wounding  my  knees  with  kneeling  at  the  church 

door, 
I  entreat  for  thee,  turning  towards  the  west. 

Let  the  seas  some  day  dry  up  from  shore  to  shore. 
And  let  the  two  worlds  approach  each  other  in  an  instant ! 
Then  I  should  have  no  need  of  heaven  or  of    the  sun. 

Return!     I  am  waiting  for  thy  return  on  the  threshold 

of  our  cottage. 
My  hands  empty  of  thy  hands,  I  dream  of  thee,  in  my 

black  robes. 
Return,  like  the  sweet  fruits  of  our  garden! 
My  heart's  love  keeps  my  kiss  for  thee. 

Oh,  my  milk-white  hips  have  not  yet  known  motherhood, 
And  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  decorate  a  swaddling 

cloth 
With  my  wedding  veil,  wrought  with  golden  thread; 
And  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  sing,  sitting  beside  a 

cradle, 
The  pure,  heavenly  lullaby  of  Armenian  mothers. 

Return!     My  longing  has  no  end, 
When  the  black  night  comes  thus  to  unfold  its  shrouds. 
When  the  owls  in  the  courtyard  shriek  with  one  another. 
When  my  sobs  end  and  my  tears  become  bloody. 
Lonely  in  my  dreams  of  a  despairing  bride, 
With  my  hands,  like  a  demon,  I  begin 
To  sift  upon  my  head  the  earth  of  my  grave,  which  is 
drawing  near  to  me. 


THIRST.  i6i 


THIRST. 

I Y  soul  is  listening  to  the  death  of  the  twilight. 
Kneeling  on  the  far-away  soil  of  suffering,  my 
soul  is  drinking  the  wounds  of  twilight  and  of 
the  ground;  and  within  itself  it  feels  the  raining  down 
of  tears. 

And  all  the  stars  of  slaughtered  lives,  so  like  to 
eyes  grown  dim,  in  the  pools  of  my  heart  this 
evening  are  dying  of  despair  and  of  waiting. 

And  the  ghosts  of  all  the  dead  to-night  will  wait 
for  the  dawn  with  mine  eyes  and  my  soul.  Per- 
haps, to  satisfy  their  thirst  for  life,  a  drop  of 
light  will  fall  upon  them  from  on  high. 


^ 


i62  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  STARVING. 

YE  ancient  and  undisturbed  Armenian  plains 

of  kind  mornings, 
And  ye,  golden  fields,  rich  orchards,  and  pas- 
tures smiling  with  life. 
Ye    valleys    covered    with    marble,    flower-beds    and 

kind  and  fruitful  gardens — 
Ye  that  create  wine,  which  causes  self-forgetfulness, 

and  eternal,  sacred  daily  bread! 
Ye  indescribable  paradises  of  plants,  birds,  flowers  and 

songs! 
To-day,  once  more,  at  the  lonely  hour  of  my  returning 

memory,  of  my  sorrowful  grief  and  delirium, 
I  call  on  your  spirits,  in  bitterness  live  your  life,  and 
hopelessly  weep  for  you ! 

Out  of  the  blue,  boundless  space  the  fiery  dawns  open 

their  lilies, 
And  lo!  the  proud  cock  makes  his  silvery  voice  resound. 
The  kotchnaks    click  from  village  to  village; 
An  harmonious  flute  joyously  announces  invitations; 
And  the  herds  scatter  themselves  over  the  hilltops. 
With  the  dance  of  the  industrious  and  busy  bees. 
And  the  peace  sings.     The  flowers  tremble.     The  buds 

seem  to  have  the  glances  of  saintly  women. 

'    The  kotchnak  is  a  small  wooden  board  that  is  beaten  with  a  stick 
to  arouse  the  sleepers. 


THE  STARVING.  163 

Art  thou  reminded  of  the  white  voice  of  the  flour-mill, 
the  ever-moving  body  of  fertility  and  labor, 

Which  turns  its  obedient  and  tireless  wheel  by  the 
billows  of  the  unbridled  torrent  of  the  valley, 

Apportioning  the  blessing  of  its  flour  to  the  cities  and 
villages,  from  time  immemorial? 

The  brooks  flow  through  the  velvet  mosses  like  chil- 
dren's nakedness; 

The  morning  smoke  of  fireplaces  and  chimneys  alike 
pours  out  its  incense. 

The  beautiful  young  women  with  marble  breasts  go, 
pitcher  in  hand,  to  the  springs  for  the  diamond- 
pure  water. 

Others  draw  near  the  rosebush,  to  sing  with  the  night- 
ingale of  their  new-born  love. 

It  is  the  happy  climate  of  the  harvest,  full  of  good 
tidings,  that  is  born. 

Nature  is  pregnant,  and  the  farmers,  who  have  drunk 
of  the  fruit  and  effort  of  their  skill. 

Crowd  around  the  plains.  The  scythes  on  their  shoul- 
ders flash  like  hope. 

Andastan  is  about  to  begin.  To-day  is  the  dawn  of 
the  harvest's  blessing. 

Let  a  prayer  for  nature,  for  beneficent  nature,  rise 

from  men's  lips! 
May  the  soil  grant  its  innumerable  ears  of  wheat  to  us, 

and  to  humanity  in  the  four  corners  of  the  earth, — 
To  the  neighbor,  to  the  friend,  to  the  enemy,  to  the 

evil  man  and  to  the  stranger! 

^  Andastan  corresponds  to  our  Thanksgiving  Day. 


i64  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Let   all   hunger    be   appeased,    and   let    all   thirst   be 
quenched  with  the  bright  water! 

This  celebration  is  solemnized  from  north  to  south, 

from  east  to  west, 
For  the  abundance  of  every  race,  every  class,  every 

caste,  every  field  and'every  harvest. 
Prayers  are  solemnized,  and  sweetened,  and  purified; 

and  out  of  the  mist  of  incense 
Smiles  of  joy  brighten  the  face  of  the  good  peasant 

with  sunny  hope. 

The  ears  still  standing  kiss  one  another  once  more  with 

thoughts  of  the  wind; 
The  sickles  move,  and  golden  seas,  seas,  seas  are  being 

mown; 
And  sheaves,  bundle  by  bundle,  through  the  shadows 

of  the  fertile  evening. 
Like   a   multitude   of   stars   that   have   rained   down, 

meditate  motionless  from  field  to  field. 

The  day  is  done;  and  with  the  blooming  rose  and  the 

songs  of  early  morn, 
Huge  oxen,  pair  by  pair,  around  the  threshing  rings  will 

thresh  the  wonderful  wheat. 
The  flour  mills  will  work,  the  thoner^  will  burn. 
Behold  all  significance,  all  reason,  all  law,   purpose, 

cleanliness  and  greatness  of  incomprehensible  life! 

O  all  ye  strange  thoughts  of  my    suffering,    avaunt 
for  this  evening! 

'  The  thoner  is  a  round,  open  fireplace  built  in  the  Rround. 


THE  STARVING.  165 

My  unhappy  dream  in  ashes  disclosed  its  wounded 

aspect. 
See!  the  endless  golden  fields  of  yesterday  wear  the 

terrible  appearance  of  graveyards, 
And  the  waters  of  ruined  fountains,  so  like  the  tears 

of  a  dying  man, 
Join  the  sobbing  brooks,  and  go  to  moisten  the  black 

aspect  of  the  horrible  ruins. 

In  place  of  the  infinite  goodness  of  ears  of  wheat, 

yellow  thistles  have  sprung  up. 
And  over  the  fruit-bearing  gardens  the  dark  cawing 

of  black  crows  is  dying  away. 
With   their   arms   outstretched    against    the   horizon, 

gaunt  and  frail  trees 
With  the  rising  of  the  winds  are  crushed  against  one 

another,  like  the  skeletons  of  countless  dead. 
The  ill-omened  tempest  flies  along  the  paths  by  night 

with  roaring  as  of  a  forest, 
Demolishing  half-ruined  villages  and  roofs  beneath  the 

anger  of  its  sweep, 
Opening   earth-mounds   and   graves,    strangling   birds 

in  the  caves. 
Meanwhile  from  the  caverns  the  howling  of  the  devour- 
ing wild  beasts  tolls  the  knell  of  death. 

There  is  no  harvest,  no  harvester,  no  sower  and  no 

earth  to  plow. 
Hungry  oxen  bellow  mournfully.     Vegetation  is  dying 

with  the  flowers. 
The  plow  in  the  corner  of  the  barn  awaits  the  new  and 

never-returning  spring. 


1 66  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

The  cock  crows  no  more.  The  dawn,  it  seems,  like  the 
blood  of  my  race,  has  sunk  into  the  depths  of  the 
earth. 

The  innumerable  caravans  of  wretchedness,  from  every 
side,  migrate  towards  the  plains; 

Tragically  beating  their  breasts,  they  frame,  prayers, 
hoping  against  hope. 

They  celebrate  the  fields  of  bygone  dawns,  they  im- 
plore, they  bleed. 

"O  Lord,  we  are  hungry,  have  pity  on  us! 

Nature,  have  pity  on  us!  Men,  we  are  hungry!  Hu- 
manity, we  are  hungry!" 

The  current  of  water  carries  the  corpse  of  the  miller. 
And  the  mad  flour-mill  turns  vainly,  like  an  empty 

coffin. 
Grinding  the  horror,  the  wailing,  the  death  of  all  that 

surrounds  it. 
Madly  it  turns,  gnawing  at  its  millstone  and  wheels. 

The  new-born  babes,  with  terrible  eyes,  suck  the  dry 

breasts. 
Oh,  the  vision  of  Armenian  mothers,  the  nearly-blinded 

eyes  of  the  mothers  before  all  these! 
Oh,  where  is  the  road,  where  is  the  abyss,  whore  is 

forgetfulness,     where  is  the  awful  pit? 
But  death  does  not  come,  it  docs  not  come.     Like  the 

longed-for  salvation,  it  docs  not  come. 

The  tremulous  old  women,  groaning  beneath  their 
head-coverings. 


THE  STARVING.  167 

Amid  the  ashes  of  their  ruined  homes,  at  sunrise,  with 
savage  blood  all  around  them, 

Among  the  ashes  of  their  fallen  homes,  kneeling  dili- 
gently before  their  wooden  kneading-troughs. 

Bake  in  haste  a  little  bread  for  the  starving  ones. 

And  the  miserable  throng  of  beggars  with  shattered 

bodies 
Wander  along  the  painful  road  like  phantoms, 
And,  though  disheartened  with  knocking  at  the  doors 

of  enemies,  friends  and  pious  folk, 
They  once  more  return,  again  shed  tears,  once  more 

beg,  once  more  suffer  the  agonies  of  death. 

Hear  this  sobbing,  supplication,  begging!      "We  are 

hungry,  we  are  hungry!" 
There  are  those  who  tear  their  hair,  there  are  those  who 

shed  tears  like  drops  of  lead. 
There  are  those  who  hope  they  are  already  dead  under 

cover  of  a  pall  of  silence, 
There  are  those  who  once  more  dig  the  hard  earth  with 

their  bleeding  nails. 
There  are   those  who   fall  one  upon   another  in   the 

graves, 
There  are  those  who  still  look  for  plants  and  roots 

with  stubborn  hope. 
There    are    those  who  begin  horribly  to  dance,  arm 

in  arm  with  frightful  madness; 
And   others,   terrible   to   tell,   already    approach    the 

corpses,  unburied  and  awaiting  burial. 

O  ye  hostile  thoughts  of  my  suffering,  avaunt,  all  of 
ye,  upon  this  evening! 


i68  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  LONGING  LETTER. 

Daniel  Varoujan  was  born  in  a  village  of  Sebastia  in  1884. 
He  studied  at  St.  Lazare,  Venice,  and  later  in  Belgium.  He  is 
the  author  of  a  series  of  martial  and  patriotic  epics.  He 
is  believed  to  have  perished  in  the  Constantinople  massacres 
of  1915. 

Y  mother  writes:  "My  son  on  pilgrimage, 
How  long  beneath  a   strange  moon  will  you 
roam? 

How  long  a  time  must  pass  ere  your  poor  head 
To  my  warm  bosom  I  may  press,  at  home? 

"Oh,  long  enough  upon  strange  stairs  have  trod 
Your  feet,  which  in  my  palms  I  warmed  one  day — 

Your  heart,  in  which  my  breasts  were  emptied  once, 
Far  from  my  empty  heart  has  pined  away! 

"My  arms  are  weary  at  the  spinning  wheel; 

I  weave  my  shroud,  too,  with  my  hair  of  snow. 
Ah,  would  mine  eyes  could  see  you  once  again, 

Then  close  forever,  with  my  heart  below  j 

"Always  I  sit  in  sadness  at  my  door. 

And  tidings  ask  from  every  crane  that  flies. 

That  willow  slip  you  planted  long  ago 
Has  grown  till  over  me  its  shadow  lies. 


THE  LONGING  LETTER.  169 

"I  wait  in  vain  for  your  return  at  eve. 

All  the  brave  fellows  of  the  village  pass, 
The  laborer  goes  by,  the  herdsman  bold — 

I  with  the  moon  am  left  alone,  alas! 

"My  ruined  house  is  left  without  a  head. 

Sometimes  for  death,  and  always  for  the  cheer 
Of  my  own  hearth  I  yearn.     A  tortoise  I, 

Whose  entrails  to  its  broken  shell  adhere ! 

"Oh,  come,  my  son,  your  ancient  home  restore! 

They  burst  the  door,  they  swept  the  larders  bare. 
Now  all  the  swallows  of  the  spring  come  in 

Through  shattered  windows,  open  to  the  air. 

"Of  all  the  goodly  flocks  of  long  ago 

One  brave  ram  only  in  our  stable  stands. 

His  mother  once — remember,  little  son — 

While  yet  a  lamb,  ate  oats  out  of  your  hands. 

"Rice,  bran  and  clover  fine  I  give  him  now, 
To  nourish  his  rich  dmak,    of  noble  size; 

I  comb  his  soft  wool  with  a  wooden  comb; 
He  is  a  dear  and  precious  sacrifice. 

"When  you  come  back,  his  head  with  roses  wreathed, 
He  shall  be  sacrificed  to  feast  you,  sweet; 

And  in  his  blood,  my  well-beloved  son, 
I  then  will  wash  my  pilgrim's  weary  feet." 

^  A  mass  of  fat  which  hangs  down  behind  sheep  of  this  breed,  in 
place  of  a  tail. 


I70  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  WORKING  GIRL. 

ENEATH  my  window,  as  each  morning  dawns, 
You  like  a  wandering  ghost  go  flitting  by. 
And  on  your  beauteous  virgin  head  there  fall 
Tears  from  my  rose  vine,  leafless  now  and  dry. 


I  hear  your  footsteps  in  the  silent  street, 

And  the  awakened  dog  that  barks  at  you; 

Or  in  my  sleep  I  hear  the  constant  cough 

That  racks  your  lovely  bosom  through  and  through. 

I  think  that  you  are  hungry,  robbed  of  sleep. 
Your  body  shivering  in  the  breezes  cold. 
And  on  your  tresses,  O  my  sister!  lies 
The  frost,  like  jewels,  glittering  to  behold. 

Or  else,  I  think,  your  shoes  are  torn  and  rent; 
The  water  from  the  street  is  oozing  through; 
Or  impudently,  as  you  pass  along. 
Some  scoundrel  Turk  is  whistling  after  you. 

I  think  that  ill  at  home  your  mother  lies. 
And  that  the  oil  which  fed  the  lamp  is  dry, 
And  to  the  factory  you  go,  to  toil 
For  light  and  life.     I  think  of  it,  and  sigh! 


THE  WORKING  GIRL.  171 

I  think  of  it,  and  madly  then  I  wish 
I  might  come  down,  my  pallid  sister  dear, 
Come  down  to  you,  to  kiss  your  thin,  frail  hand, 
And  whisper  low,  "I  love  you!"  in  your  ear. 

I  love  your  sorrow,  which  is  mine  as  well — 
My  grief  of  griefs,  all  other  woes  above; 
I  love  your  shattered  breast,  where  still  your  love 
Sings  on  and  on — a  skylark  wild  with  love. 

Pale  girl,  I  long  to  press  you  to  my  heart 
Like  some  poor  banished  dove,  forlorn  and  lone — 
Give  you  my  strength,  my  prizes  won  from  fame. 
And  my  untarnished  name  to  be  your  own. 

Fain  would  I  be  your  honor's  veil  and  screen. 
My  breast  a  shield  for  your  defenceless  breast. 
If  I  could  guard,  with  arms  as  granite  strong. 
Your  sex  and  your  grave  beauty,  I  were  blest ! 

Fain  would  I  give  you  all  that  I  have  won 
In  life's  hard  struggle,  all  I  have  of  good — 
Crown  you  with  roses  of  my  victory, 
Roses  that  wear  the  color  of  my  blood; 

Only  that  never  more,  my  sister  dear. 
You  should  be  pale  and  hungry,  coughing  sore, 
And  that  your  mother's  lamp  should  not  go  out. 
And  to  the  factory  you  should  go  no  more! 


172  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


ALMS. 

TO  THE  STARVING  PEOPLE. 

HERE  is  famine;  bread,  bread!" 

Who  is  sighing? 
On    the    threshold  of   my  cottage,   who   is 
sighing? 
My  love  has  gone  out,  with  the  flame  in  my  fireplace. 
Ashes  within  me,  ashes  around  me;  oh,  of  what  use  is  it 
To  sow  tears  on  ashes? 

I  have  nothing,  nothing!     To-day,  with  my  last 
Small  coin  I  bought  poison; 
I  shall  mix  poison  within  me. 

Come  to-morrow  to  the  graveyard,  thou  Hungry  One, 
Through  the  storm,  early,  when  around  the  village 
Wolves  are  still  wandering. 
Come  to-morrow!     As  bread,  from  my  grave 
I  will  throw  into  that  bag  of  thine 
My  poet's  heart. 
My  poet's  heart  shall  be  thy  blood,  the  blood  of  thy 

orphans. 
As  long  as  thy  grief  lives. 
Come  to-morrow  to  the  graveyard,  Othou  Hungry  Onel 


THE  AGED  CRANE.  173 


THE  AGED   CRANE. 

|N  the  bank  of  the  river,  in  the  row  of  cranes, 

That  one  drooped  its  head. 

Put  its  beak  under  its  wing,  and  with  itsaged 
Dim  pupils,  awaited 
Its  last  black  moment. 
When  its  comrades  wished  to  depart. 
It  could  not  join  them  in  their  flight. 
Scarcely  could  it  open  its  eyes  and  watch  in  the  air 
The  path  of  the  little  flock  that  went  along 
Calling  down  to  those  under  the  roofs 
The  tidings,  the  greetings  and  the  tears 
Entrusted  to  them  by  the  exile. 
Ah,  the  poor  bird!  In  the  bleak  embrace 
Of  that  cold  autumnal  silence,  it  is  dying. 
It  is  vain  to  dream  any  more 
Of  a  distant  spring,  of  cool  currents  of  air 
Under  strong  and  soaring  wings. 
Or  of  passing  through  cool  brooks 
With  naked  feet,  of  dipping  its  long  neck 
Amongst  the  green  reeds; 
It  is  vain  to  dream  any  more! 
The  wings  of  the  Armenian  crane 
Are  tired  of  traveling.     It  was  true 
To  its  heart-depressing  calling; 
It  has  transported  so  many  tears! 
How   many   young   wives   have   put    among   its   soft 

feathers 
Their  hearts,  ardently  beating! 


174  ARMENIAN  I'D  EMS. 

How  many  separated  mothers  and  sons 

Have  loaded  its  wings  with  kisses! 

Now,  with  a  tremor  on  its  dying  day, 

It  shakes  from  its  shoulders 

The  vast  sorrow  of  an  exiled  race. 

The  vows  committed  to  it,  the  hidden  sighs 

Of  a  betrothed  bride  who  saw  at  length 

Her  last  rose  wither  unkissed; 

A  mother's  sad  blessing; 

Loves,  desires,  longings. 

It  shakes  at  last  from  its  shoulders. 

And  on  the  misty  river-bank 

Its  weary  wings,  spread  for  the  last  time, 

Point  straight  toward 

The  Armenian  hills,  the  half-ruined  villages. 

With  the  voice  of  its  dying  day 

It  curses  immigration. 

And  falls,  in  silence,  upon  the  coarse  sand  of  the  river 

bank. 
It  chooses  its  grave. 
And,  thrusting  its  purple  beak 
Under  a  rock,  the  dwelling-place  of  a  lizard, 
Stretching  out  its  curving  neck 
Among  the  songs  of  the  waves. 
With  a  noble  tremor  it  expires! 

A  serpent  there,  which  had  watched  that  death-agony 

Silently  for  a  long  time  with  staring  pupils, 

Crawls  up  from  the  river-bank, 

And,  to  revenge  a  grudge  of  olden  days, 

With  an  evil  and  swift  spring 

Coils  around  its  dead  neck. 


THE  BOAD.  175 


THE  BOND. 

Archag  Tchobanian  was  born  in  Constantinople  in  1872, 
the  son  of  a  poor  silversmith.  He  became  a  teacher  and 
writer,  contributing  to  various  periodicals  poems,  fairy  tales, 
literary  studies  and  criticisms.  He  brought  out  a  successful 
drama,  was  appointed  teacher  of  the  history  of  literature  in  the 
Central  School,  and  became  editor  of  a  literary  and  artistic 
magazine.  In  1S95  he  settled  in  Paris,  where  he  has  devoted 
himself  to  making  the  Armenians  better  known  in  Europe. 
He  is  an  indefatigable  worker,  and  has  published,  in  French,  a 
number  of  volumes  containing  translations  of  Armenian 
literature,  ancient  and  modern,  besides  editing  "Anahit," 
a  literary  and  critical  magazine  which  he  founded. 

|LL  things  are  bound  together  by  a  tie 
Finer  and  subtler  than  a  ray  of  light; 
Color  and  sound  and  fleeting  fragrances, 
The  maiden's  smile,  the  star-beam  sparkling  bright, 
Are  knit  together  by  a  secret  bond 
Finer  and  subtler  than  a  ray  of  light. 

Sometimes  an  urn  of  memories  is  unsealed 

Just  by  a  simple  tune,  or  sad  or  gay; 
Part  of  the  past  with  every  quivering  note 

From  its  dark  sleep  awakens  to  the  day. 
And  we  live  o'er  again  a  long-past  life, 

Just  through  a  simple  tune,  or  sad  or  gay. 

Some  flowers  bring  men  and  women  back  to  mind; 
A  well-known  face  smiles  on  us  in  their  hue; 


176  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Their  bright  cups,  moved  by  the  capricious  wind. 
Will  make  us  dream  of  eyes,  black  eyes  or  blue; 

We  in  their  fragrance  feel  a  breath  beloved; 

Flowers  bring  back  men  and  women  whom  we  knew. 

The  summer  sea  recalls  fond,  happy  hours; 

We  in  the  sunset  see  our  dead  once  more; 
In  starlight,  holy  loves  upon  us  smile; 

With  our  own  griefs  the  stormy  thunders  roar; 
The  zephyr  breathes  to  us  a  name  adored; 

We  in  the  sunset  see  the  dead  once  more. 

All  things  are  bound  in  closest  unison, 

Throughout  the  world,  by  many  a  mystic  thread. 

The  flower,  and  love,  the  breeze  and  reverie. 
Nature  and  man,  and  things  alive  and  dead, 

Are  all  akin,  and  bound  in  harmony 
Throughout  the  world,  by  many  a  mystic  thread. 


TO  THE  MOON.  177 


TO  THE  MOON. 

HY  am  I  not  the  thin  white  cloud 
That,  floating  soft  and  slow, 
Veils  the  pure  splendor  of  your  face 
'Neath  its  transparent  snow? 


Or  one  of  those  unnumbered  stars — 

Bees  that  in  heaven's  height 
Flit  round  you,  seeking  honey  there, 

O  shining  Rose  of  light? 

Why  am  I  not  the  dark-browed  mount 

Where  you  a  moment  stay, 
Ere  spreading  your  broad,  viewless  wings 

To  soar  through  heaven  away? 

Why  am  I  not  the  forest  deep, 
Where,  dropping  through  the  air, 

'Mid  foliage  dark  slip  in  and  hang 
Threads  of  your  golden  hair? 

Why  am  I  not  the  tranquil  sea 
On  which  your  beams  descend, 

Where  molten  diamonds  and  fire 
And  milk  and  honey  blend? 


178  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Alas,  why  am  I  not  at  least 
That  cold  tomb  of  the  dead, 

On  which  your  rays  so  tenderly 
Their  tears'  bright  sadness  shed? 


THE  WIND.  179 


THE  WIND. 

HE  Wind's  the  aged  traveler 
Who  sings  old  songs  he  knows, 

As  all  alone,  without  a  guide, 
He  through  the  forest  goes. 


His  voice  caresses  like  a  kiss 
When  over  flowers  he  strays; 

The  Wind's  the  ancient  traveler 
Who  murmurs  old-time  lays. 

But  like  a  cataract  he  roars 

Far  out  upon  the  sea, 
And  rushing  through  the  winter  nights 

He  curses  savagely. 


^ 


i8o  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


WITHIN  MY  HEART. 

ITHIN  my  heart  there  is  a  maid 
Would  fain,  with  earnest  will, 
Recall  an  old,  forgotten  tune; 
But  it  eludes  her  still. 


Within  my  heart  there  is  a  child 
Who  waits,  with  longing  dumb 

And  endless  hope,  for  somebody 
Who  does  not,  does  not  come. 

There  is  an  old  man  in  my  heart 

Who  calls  eternally 
To  someone  very  far  away 

Who  never  makes  reply. 


f? 


LULLABY  FOR  MOTHER  ARMENIA.        i8l 


LULLABY  FOR  MOTHER  ARMENIA. 


LL  naked  at  the  crossroads  thou  dost  sit. 
The  snow  descends  and  clings  along  thine  hair. 
Dark  wounds  are  in  thy  flesh;  thine  eyes  have 

grown 
As  red  as  lakes  of  blood,  in  thy  despair. 


The  ancient  Mother  thou,  of  age-long  griefs; 
Misfortune  round  thy  heart  its  chain  hath  laid 
In  countless  rings;  black  winds  have  smitten  thee, 
And  heavy  shadows  on  thy  life  have  weighed. 

What  evil  fairy  spun  thy  thread  of  fate? 
Who,  seeing  thee  cast  down  and  like  to  die, 
Will  call  to  mind  that  thou  wast  once  a  maid 
Of  mighty  strength,  with  proud  and  radiant  eye? 

Thy  tresses  like  a  banner  floated  wide 
On  the  free  mountain  where  thy  spirit  fleet 
Leaped,  with  exultant  cry,  from  peak  to  peak; 
Thy  proud  breast  swelled  with  milk  as  honey  sweet. 

All  brigands  have  desired  thee;  monstrous  foes 
Threw  themselves  on  thee;  long  didst  thou  contend, 
Long  didst  thou  struggle,  until,  wearied  out, 
Thou  didst  sink  down  exhausted  at  tb"  end. 


i82  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

And  yet,  amid  destructive  forces  vast, 
Thy  soul  was  kind  and  fruitful  in  all  worth. 
Thou  to  the  world  didst  add  a  flower  of  life; 
Thy  fingers  drew  forth  beauty  from  the  earth. 

Mother  of  gold  wast  thou,  with  dazzling  breasts, — 
The  Goddess  Anahit,    with  peaceful  eyes. 
Wealth  from  thy  bosom  rained,  rays  from  thy  glance; 
Thy  lips  were  musical,  thy  hands  were  wise. 

Barbarians  bound  thy  hands,  thy  tender  flesh 
Tore  and  polluted;  in  those  darksome  days 
Thou  didst  become  the  Mother  blood-bestained, 
With  myriad  wounds,  and  dragged  through  Calvary's 
ways. 

Yet  thou  wast  beauteous,  thou  wast  brave  in  pain! 
In  fetters,  still  thy  soul  did  ardent  burn. 
Thou  brokest  many  a  formidable  yoke, 
And  oft  from  death  to  life  didst  thou  return. 

Thine  eyes  were  turned  forever  to  the  light; 
Toward  the  new  world  its  course  thy  spirit  sped; 
And  thou  stood'st  firm  for  centuries,  all  alone, 
Against  the  flood  of  Asia  making  head. 

That  torrent,  growing  greater  and  more  fierce, 
O'erthrew  thee,  quenched  beneath  its  waves  thy  light. 
Then  wretched,  panting,  stretched  upon  the  earth, 
Yet  living  still,  thou  waitedst  through  the  night. 

^  The  Goddess  of  love,  in  Armenia's  pagan  days. 


LULLABY  FOR  MOTHER  ARMENIA.  183 

Sometimes  by  night  the  crosses  of  old  tombs 
Stirred  and  were  shaken;  with  an  angry  light 
The  genii  of  Mt.  Ararat  passed  by; 
From  thy  great  lakes  shot  flashes  red  and  bright. 

The  low  sound  of  a  drum-beat  crossed  the  air, 
And,  trembling,  to  the  mountain  summit  bold 
Thou  didst  lift  up  thine  eyes;  then  fell  again 
The  heavy  shadows  and  the  silence  cold. 

Once,  anguished,  thou  upstartedst;  from  thy  lips 
A  cry  of  pain  and  of  rebellion  rushed; 
But  deaf  the  world  remained;  thine  effort  vain 
'Neath  the  blind  heel  of  brutal  force  was  crushed. 

'Mid  fires  of  evil  omen,  monsters  dire 

Appeared,  which  burned  thine  heart,  plucked  out  thine 

eyes. 
Driven  from   thy    home,    thou   on   the  ground   didst 

fall 
'Mid  blood  and  ashes,  'neath  the  windy  skies. 

And  now,  a  mournful  shadow,  thou  dost  sit 
'Mid  smoking  ruins,  desolate,  oppressed. 
Thy  wounds  are  bitten  by  the  wind;  the  blood 
Falls  drop  by  drop  from  thy  discolored  breast. 

Slowly  thou  shak'st  thy  head,  and  shedding  tears 
Thou  singest  low  and  sweet  a  lullaby — 
That  of  thy  children  fallen  in  their  blood, 
Or  exiled,  scattered,  flung  abroad  to  die; 


i84  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

The  lullaby  of  youthful  flames  now  quenched, 
And  eyes  now  darkened  that  were  once  so  fair; 
And  that  of  those  who  live  and  suffer  still, 
In  poverty,  in  dungeons,  in  despair. 

Enough !  Thy  lullaby's  a  chant  of  death ! 
Enough!     We'll  sing  thee  a  new  lullaby — 
A  lullaby  of  hope  and  of  revenge. 
The  dead  will  thrill  with  joy  where  low  they  lie. 

Lift  up  thy  head,  weep  not!    Holy  is  grief, 

And  great  and  wholesome.     Earth  naught  nobler  knows 

Than  is  the  victim  brave  beneath  his  cross. 

'Tis  in  the  shadow  that  the  dawn-light  grows. 

The  black  destroyers,  the  red  torturers 

Shall  vanish — they  like  smoke  shall  disappear. 

And  from  thine  ashes  thou  shalt  rise  again, 

Made  young  by  suffering,  radiant,  bright  and  clear. 

Weep  not !    No  longer  droop  thy  piteous  head. 
Nor  let  thine  hair  stream  wild  the  winds  among; 
But  know  thyself,  and  gather  up  thy  powers! 
Thy  strength  has  propped  a  stranger's  house  too  long. 

Pale  brothers  who  have  fallen,  sleep  in  peace! 
Stretch  thy  great  hands  and  bless  us,  Mother!   Rise, 
And  may  our  blood  dry  up,  and  may  our  lives 
Be  for  thine  happiness  a  sacrifice! 

Thou  shalt  come  forth  triumphant  from  these  shades; 
Stars  shall  thine  eyes  become,  and  sparkle  bright; 


LULLABY  FOR  MOTHER  ARMENIA.         185 

Thy  wounds  to  radiant  roses  shall  be  changed, 
And  from  thy  whitened  hair  shall  spring  forth  light. 

Thou  at  the  opening  of  the  ways  shalt  stand, 
And  break  the  bonds  that  held  thee  down  in  gloom. 
O  Mother,  rise!  thy  pains  were  childbirth  pangs; 
It  is  a  world  that  stirs  within  thy  womb! 


^ 


i86  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


WHEN  SOME  DAY. 

HovHANNES  TouMANiAN  was  bom  in  a  village  of  Lorga 
in  1869.  He  received  little  schooling,  but  has  educated  him- 
self. His  poems  are  very  popular;  and  he  is  also  the  author 
of  many  translations.  Since  the  late  massacres  he  has  been 
active  and  tireless  in  the  relief  work. 

WEET  comrade,  when  you  come  some  day 
To  gaze  upon  my  tomb, 
And  scattered  all  around  it  see 
Bright  flowers  in  freshest  bloom, 

Think  not  that  those  are  common  flowers 

Which  at  your  feet  are  born, 
Or  that  the  spring  has  brought  them  there 

My  new  home  to  adorn. 

They  are  my  songs  unsung,  which  used 

Within  my  heart  to  hide; 
They  are  the  words  of  love  I  left 

Unuttered  when  I  died. 

They  are  my  ardent  kisses,  dear, 

Sent  from  that  world  unknown, 
The  path  to  which  before  you  lies 

Blocked  by  the  tomb  alone! 


BEFORE  A   PAINTING  BY  AYVASOVSKY.     187 


BEFORE  A  PAINTING  BY  AYVASOVSKY. 


ISING  from  ocean,  billows  uncontrolled, 
With  heavy  flux  and  reflux,  beating  high, 
Towered  up  like  mountains,  roaring  terribly; 


The  wild  storm  blew  with  wind  gusts  manifold- 
A  mad,  tempestuous  race 
Through  endless,  boundless  space. 

"Halt!"  cried  the  aged  wizard,  brush  in  hand, 

To  the  excited  elements;  and  lo! 

Obedient  to  the  voice  of  genius,  now 

The  dark  waves,  in  the  tempest's  fury  grand, 

Upon  the  canvas,  see! 

Stand  still  eternally! 


i88  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


IN  THE  COTTAGE. 

HE  little  children  wept  and  wailed; 

Heart-rending  were  the  tears  they  shed. 
"Mamma,  mamma,  we  want  our  foodiv 
Get  up,  mamma,  and  give  us  bread!" 


With  bitter  sorrow  in  her  heart 

Groaned  the  sick  mother  from  her  bed: 
"We  have  no  bread,  my  little  ones; 

Papa  has  gone  to  get  you  bread." 

"No,  you  are  cheating,  bad  mamma! 

You  are  deceiving  us !    You  said 
That  when  the  sunlight  struck  the  banks 

Papa  would  come  and  bring  us  bread. 

"The  sun  has  come,  the  sun  has  gone; 

Still  are  we  hungry,  still  unfed. 
Mamma,  mamma,  we  want  our  food! 

Get  up,  mamma,  and  give  us  bread!" 

"No  bread  your  father  yet  has  found; 

Without  it  he  dares  not  come  back. 
Wait  but  a  little  while,  my  dears! 

Now  I  wUl  follow  in  his  track. 


IN  THE  COTTAGE. 

"In  heaven  there  is  a  great  Papa; 

Abundant  store  of  bread  has  he. 
He  loves  you  much,  so  very  much, 

He  will  not  let  you  hungry  be. 

"There  will  I  go  and  say  to  him 

That  you  are  faint  with  hunger  sore. 

Plenty  of  bread  I'll  ask  for  you, 

That  you  may  eat,  and  weep  no  more." 

So  spake  the  mother,  and  she  clasped 
The  starving  children  to  her  breast.  , 

On  her  pale  lips  the  last  kiss  froze 
That  to  their  faces  thin  she  pressed. 

The  mother's  arms  unclosed  no  more — 
She  shut  her  eyes  and  went  away 

Bread  to  her  little  ones  to  send — 
And  lifeless  in  their  sight  she  lay. 

The  little  children  wept  and  wailed; 

Heart-rending  were  the  tears  they  shed. 
"Mamma,  mamma,  we  want  our  food; 

Get  up,  mamma,  and  give  us  bread!" 


I90 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


NEW  SPRING. 

HovHANNES  HovHANNESSiAX,  teachcr  and  writer,  was  born 
in  1864  at  Vagharshabad,  near  Etchmiadzin.  He  is  a  grad- 
uate of  the  University  of  iloscow. 


HERE  art  thou  coming.  Springtime  sweet? 
Thou  com'st  in  vain,  O  Spring! 
No  one  is  left  to  wait  for  Ihee, 
No  one  thy  praise  to  sing. 


.Deep  darkness  has  enwrapped  the  world; 

To  mount  and  valley  cling 
Red  stains  of  blood;  this  year  brought  woe. 
Where  art  thou  coming,  Spring? 

The  nightingale  may  sing  to  thee; 

Who  else,  where  all  are  slain, 
Is  left  to  smile?     What  heart  can  stir? 

O  Spring,  thou  com'st  in  vain! 


The  nightingale  has  come,  but  found 

No  rose  with  silken  leaf. 
Here  is  the  flower-bed,  but  no  flower. 

Who  else  is  free  from  grief? 


NEW  SPRING.  191 

Although  thou  hast  brought  back  the  birds, 

How  shall  they  find  their  nests? 
No  spot  in  all  our  fatherland 

Unspoiled,  unruined  rests. 

The  minstrel's  mouth  is  closed  to-day; 

No  flutes  or  viols  ring; 
His  heart  is  burning  without  fire. 

Where  art  thou  coming,  Spring? 

No  one  is  left  to  praise  thee  now 

On  mountain  or  on  plain; 
No  one  is  left  to  wait  for  thee; 

0  Spring,  thou  com'st  in  vain! 


Vs 


192  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  POET. 

ET  your  song  boil  with  fire  of  ardent  wrath, 
And  make  the  soul  with  unfeigned  sorrow 
ache; 

Echo  of  noble  wishes  let  it  be, 
And  sacred  patriotism  let  it  wake. 


Let  every  note  call  on  us  to  advance; 

Breathe  hope  to  those  oppressed  by  conflicts  dread; 
With  immortality  the  fallen  wreathe, 

And  shame  the  man  who  like  a  dastard  fled. 

Yea,  let  us  wrestle  for  the  light,  the  truth. 

Which  with  untruth  and  darkness  wage  their  fray! 

Then,  bowing  reverently  before  your  face, 
"You  are  a  poet!"  we  with  joy  will  say. 

Let  your  song  ring  as  rings  the  gurgling  brook 
That  glides  with  silvery  eddies  mile  on  mile; 

Let  hopes  and  wishes  bubble  there  like  springs, 
With  sounds  of  power,  and  with  a  vivid  smile. 

Make  us,  while  we  to  tender  voices  list. 
Forget  ourselves  and  soar  to  worlds  above, 

Where  bitter  tears  of  hardship  are  not  shed, 

Where  rest  is  found,  and  beauty  glows  with  love. 


THE  POET.  193 

Make  us  be  glad  and  cast  off  grief  and  care, 
And  live  in  dreams  of  childhood  far  away; 

Then  we  shall  bless  the  work  that  you  have  wrought; 
"You  are  a  poet!"  we  with  joy  shall  say. 


§hz 


194 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


SONG. 


OW  often  in  my  life  to  find 
Tranquillity  I  yearned! 
Ever  with  visions  infinite 
My  heart  within  me  burned. 


The  world  will  not  afford  this  peace 

For  which  I  ask  in  vain; 
!My  broken,  wasted  heart  would  not 

With  empty  hope  remain. 

I  seek  not  the  impossible — 
One  heart  to  which  to  cling, 

One  feeling  heart,  which  to  its  mate 
Would  bring  love's  glowing  spring. 


c|» 


THE  INCENSE.  195 


THE   INCENSE. 


Madame  Sybil  (Zabel  Klanjian  Assatour)  was  born  in 
Constantinople  in  1863.  She  began  very  early  both  to  write 
and  to  do  benevolent  work.  While  yet  a  girl,  she  founded 
one  of  the  best  organizations  of  women  in  Turkish  Armenia, 
for  the  purpose  of  starting  schools  for  girls  in  the  small  towns. 
After  fifteen  years  of  good  work,  the  society  was  suppressed 
by  the  government.  It  was  re-established,  through  her 
efforts,  after  the  new  constitution  was  proclaimed  in  1908. 
It  was  maintaining  twenty  schools  when  the  massacres  of 
1915  began. 

After  the  death  of  her  first  husband,  she  married  Herant 
Assatour,  a  well-known  literary  man.  Her  work  includes 
prose,  poetry  and  translations. 


EFORE  the  altar  burns  the  fragrant  incense; 
Softly  the  silver  censer  sways  and  bows; 
The   columned    smoke    goes    up,    the    cross 
encircling. 
And  with  a  mist  anoints  the  saints'  white 
brows. 


Infinite  sighs  of  prayer  and  of  entreaty 

Under  the  vaults  die  slowly  and  are  stilled; 

Slowly  the  weeping  flames  of  dim,  faint  tapers 
Sigh,  one  by  one,  their  eyes  with  pity  filled. 


196  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Lo,  a  white  veil,  hard  by  the  sacred  column, 
Trembles  with  sobs  that  shake  a  hidden  frame; 

In  a  white  shadow  wrapped,  a  heart  is  burning 
Silently,  like  the  incense,  in  a  flame. 

Out  of  the  censer's  heart  the  incense  passes, 
Winding  it  rises  toward  the  ether's  height. 

Matter  it  was;  the  fire  its  life  hath  swallowed; 
Now  'tis  but  fragrance  filled  with  colored  light. 

So,  too,  the  grieving  woman's  heart  that  burns  there 
Will  not  be  freed  from  fetters  and  from  fires 

Until  it  melts,  dissolves,  etherealizes. 

Wholly  consumed  by  flames  of  pure  desires. 


THE  IDEAL.  197 


THE  IDEAL. 


T  is  the  moonlight,  clear  and  soft,  which  soon 
the  sun  outshines — 
A  fiery  dream,  which  pales  before  the  morn- 
ing's stronger  glow. 
It  is  the  springtime's  lightning  flash,  a  splendor  brief 

and  bright; 
A  flower  whose  petals  drop  away  when  winds  awake  and 
blow. 

It  is  a  thorny  rose,  which  draws  red  blooddrops  from 

thine  heart — ■ 
The  delicate  bright  ribbon  of  the  rainbow,  o'er  thee 

hung. 
It  is  the  purple  Northern  Lights  that  play  in  heaven's 

blue  dome — 
The  snowy  foam  that  scatters  when  against  the  rock 

'tis  flung. 

It  is  a  feather  pure  and  soft,  blown  from  the  swan's 

white  breast — 
A  sacred  kiss  beneath  the  sky,  the  open  ether  deep. 
That  which  the  wind,  the  atmosphere,  the  waters  bear 

away 
Is  the  Ideal — the  lullaby  sung  to  the  soul  asleep. 


iqS  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

The  virgin  unapproachable,  by  showers  of  yearning 

sought, 
The  golden  ring  that  binds  us  unto  life,  unto  the  real — 
The  agitating  multitude  of  dazzling  youthful  dreams, 
The  love-song  of  the  heart's  deep  void — ah,  this  is  the 

Ideal  I 


fi 


TEARS.  199 


TEARS. 

HERE  are  tears  that  fall  in  grief  and  sadness; 
Slow  and  mournfully  the  cheek  they  stain, 
Every  drop  a  sob,  a  lamentation, 
In  its  dew  a  throb  of  bitter  pain. 


There  are  other  tears,  bright,  clear,  untroubled, 
Shining  as  the  sun,  untouched  of  care, 

Like  the  violet  rain,  calm,  cool,  refreshing. 
When  the  scent  of  earth  is  on  the  air. 

There  are  tears  all  silent  and  mysterious. 

From  the  soul's  love-yearning  depths  that  steal; 

They  relate  to  us  long  tales  of  sorrow. 

Buried  loves  which  mourning  veils  conceal. 

There  are  tears  that  seem  to  me  like  laughter — 
Like  clouds  tempest-tossed,  that  roam  for  aye, 

Flinging  lightnings  to  the  winds  of  ocean, 
Drifting,  mistlike,  out  and  far  away. 

There's  a  dry  tear,  burning,  never  falling — 
Liquid  flame,  intense,  consuming,  dread — 

Not  to  pass  until  the  eyes  are  ashes. 
And  the  mind  is  ruined  too  and  dead. 


K>  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Tears,  I  know  you  all,  though  ye  be  only 
Memories  of  a  past  that  sorrows  fill. 

Strong  emotions,  be  ye  blest  forever! 
'Tis  through  you  my  heart  is  living  still. 


MURMURS  OF  A  PATRIOT. 


MURMURS  OF  A  PATRIOT. 

MuGURDiTCH  Chrimian  Haipig  is  the  grandest  figure  in 
modem  Armenian  history.  He  has  been  compared  to  Lin- 
coln. Beginning  in  poverty,  and  possessing  little  education, 
he  rose  to  the  highest  place  through  his  native  greatness  of 
mind  and  heart.  Born  in  Van  in  1820,  he  married  early, 
but  was  soon  left  a  widower.  He  took  holy  orders,  and 
devoted  himself  ardently  to  the  cause  of  education,  founding 
schools,  training  teachers,  setting  up  in  Van  the  first  printing 
press  in  Armenia,  pubHshing  a  magazine,  and  spreading  en- 
lightenment by  every  means.  He  was  a  strong  advocate  of 
education  for  girls,  and  in  one  of  his  books,  "The  Family  of 
Paradise,"  he  argues  against  the  prevailing  Oriental  idea 
that  husbands  have  a  right  to  rub  over  their  wives  by  force. 
All  his  views  were  progressive.  His  pupils  went  out  through 
the  country,  spreading  hght.  He  protested  courageously 
against  the  oppression  and  robbery  practised  on  the  Arme- 
nians. After  theTurco-Russian  war,  in  1878,  he  was  chosen  a 
delegate,  with  three  others,  to  plead  the  cause  of  the  Ar- 
menians before  the  Congress  of  Berlin.  His  activities  for  his 
people's  welfare  caused  him  to  be  exiled  for  a  time  to  Jeru- 
salem. He  rose  from  one  ecclesiastical  dignity  to  another, 
became  Patriarch  of  Constantinople,  and  was  finally  elected 
Catholicos  of  all  the  Armenians.  He  was  deeply  loved  and 
venerated  for  his  wisdom  and  saintliness.  He  died  in  1907, 
universally  mourned.  The  affectionate  surname  of  "Hairig" 
(Little  Father)  was  given  him  by  the  people. 

The  following  poem  is  dedicated  "To  brave  Vartan  and  his 
fellow  soldiers,  in  memory  of  the  celebration  of  the  Holy 
Martyrs."  It  commemorates  those  who  fell  in  the  battle  of 
Avarair. 

OD-kindled  soul,  brave  general  of  the  host 
Made    strong     by    Christ!       New    Judas 
Maccabeus, 
Chief  conqueror,  giving  courage  for  the  fight, 


202  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Victorious  alike  in  life  and  death! 
Bold  champion  against  the  Persian  faith! 
For  love  of  true  religion's  sacred  name 
And  of  the  freedom  of  the  fatherland, 
(O  greatest  love!)  you  did  not  spare  yourself; 
You  perished,  and  Armenia  arose, 
Vartan  Mamigonian! 

O  cross-clad  warrior,  spurring  your  white  steed, 
Say,  whither  are  you  going  in  such  haste? 
The  fellow  soldier  of  brave  Vartan  I, 
His  fellow  soldier  of  the  self -same  blood. 
To  reach  the  field  of  Ardaz  forth  I  go; 
And  with  the  cross's  arms,  like  butting  horns, 
The  herds  of  the  black  goats  I  there  shall  crush. 
Go,  go,  your  sword  turned  toward  the  enemy, 
Khorene  Khorkhorooni! 

Love-kindled  soul,  made  wise  by  heavenly  lore! 
Against  the  Persian  worshipers  of  fire 
Wisely  you  fought.     You  sacrificed  yourself; 
You  left  this  world;  in  heaven  is  your  reward. 
Yea,  with  great  wisdom  that  exchange  was  made, 
Wise  Humayag! 

Most  choice  foundation  rock  for  Ararat, 
The  builded  of  the  Lord,  our  Mother  Zion! 
Broken  from  the  top  of  Massis,    you  rolled  down 
To  Ardaz;  there  you  smote  and  you  destroyed 
The  false  fire-altars  of  the  Magian  faith. 

^   Massis  is  the  Armenian  name  of  Mt.  Ararat. 


MURMURS  OF  A  PATRIOT.  203 

Higher  the  glory  of  the  cross  arose, 
Satan  our  enemy  was  overcome, 
Wondrous  Dajad! 

Who,  mounted  on  his  black,  swift-flying  steed, 
With  blazing  eyes,  looks  neither  left  nor  right. 
And  goes  to  battle  with  an  eager  heart? 
He  knows  that  holy  is  the  fatherland. 
It  is  a  duty  high  to  die  for  it. 
Go  swiftly,  swiftly  go !     I  love  your  soul. 
That  vow  is  sacred.     Give  your  light  and  life — 
The  light  and  life  your  country  gave  to  you. 
A  death  like  that  is  immortality. 
Which  evil  men  of  this  world  do  not  know, 
Ardag  Balooni! 

O  scion  of  a  valiant  race !    I  love 

Your  stature  like  a  plane-tree,  that  has  raised 

Your  head  toward  heaven.     'Twas   God  that  made 

you  grow. 
Give,  do  not  spare  that  stature,  nor  your  life. 
For  church  and  nation;  sow  that  ready  seed. 
And  water  it  with  red  blood  from  your  veins, 
That  it  may  grow  into  a  lily  fair, 

O  Nerses,  hero  wonderfully  built ! 

Angelic  youth,  graceful  and  beautiful. 

Who  came  from  Knooni's  garden  full  of  flowers! 

God  planted  you,  blind  Hazgerd    plucked  you  up; 

Yet  living  still  and  blooming  you  remain. 

O  what  a  youthful  sacrifice  you  gave, 

^  The  Persian  King. 


204  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Of  your  free  will,  for  your  dear  country's  sake! 
You,  a  new  Sahag,  nurtured  tenderly, 
You,  of  the  house  of  good  St.  Gregory 
Our  father,  like  a  lamb  were  sacrificed. 
Delicate  Vahan! 

Your  heart  full-armed  with  holy  zeal,  to  take 
Vengeance  for  faith  and  fatherland,  the  field 
Of  Avarair  you  entered,  spoiled  and  slew 
The  sons  of  gloomy  Oromisda,  seeking 
To  light  up  the  fire-altars,  and  put  out 
Father  St.  Gregory's  bright-shining  lamp. 
Your  blood  put  out  the  altars  false  of  fire 
And  lighted  up  Armenia's  burning  torch. 
Amiable  Arsen! 

Yonder  before  grim  Hazgerd's  judgment  seat, 
Or  here  upon  the  field  of  Ardaz,  aye 
Forward  in  word,  in  answer,  and  with  blade; 
An  ardent  lover  of  the  spotless  faith 
Of  Jesus,  and  your  country's  liberty; 
With  two  dear  kinsmen  clasped  in  fond  embrace, 
Sweetly  you  fell  asleep.     That  sleep  is  sweet. 
Let  your  tired  arms  a  little  while  repose. 
The  flowers  of  Shavarshan,  your  monument. 
Upon  your  grave,  spread  shade  above  your  head, 
O  forward  Karekin! 

Free  nobles  of  the  royal  family. 

Two  eagles  winged  by  love,  from  Osdan's  hill 

You,  swiftly  soaring,  came  to  Avarair. 

For  what?  Was  it  to  hunt  the  unclean  beasts, 


MURMURS  OF  A  PATRIOT.  205 

The  sons  of  Servan  of  the  darkness  born, 

Tearing  the  flocks  of  sable  crows  to  bits 

With  hooked  claws?     Bravely  you  fought;  you  smote 

And  you  were  smitten;  at  the  last,  you  fell. 

Nay,  you  are  living  still,  and  standing  firm 

Still,  for  the  sake  of  the  Armenian  race, 

O  great  Ardzrouni  knights,  Vahan,  Sahag! 

Be  proud,  O  Gregory!    Be  lifted  up! 

Behold  your  lambs,  who,  having  bravely  fought 

The  apostate  wolves,  into  the  carnage  sank. 

From  heaven  above  behold  them,  newly  winged, 

In  flocks  like  doves,  flying  from  earth  to  you! 

Make  broad  your  lap,  give  them  a  resting  place; 

Your  sons  are  weary.     Count  them  one  by  one. 

One  thousand  martyrs  they  and  thirty-six, 

Whom  the  church  sprung  from  you  presents  to  heaven. 

O  God  of  Gregory,  Nerses,  Sahag! 

God  of  our  holy  ancestors,  behold 

An  all-devoted  sacrifice  for  thee — 

Such  martyrs'  sacred  blood!     Receive  it.  Lord! 

Remember,  Lord!     Have  mercy.  Lord,  and  visit 

The  holy  Vartan's  suffering  fatherland! 


^ 


2o6  ARMENIAN   POEMS. 


THE  MEMORIAL  OF  THE  LAMENTING 
SOLDIER. 


H,  not  for  me  will  be  a  grave 

With  cross-marked  stone  to  view! 
I  die  upon  the  field  of  death; 
My  name  will  perish  too. 


And  not  for  me  a  splendid  bier, 

Or  burial's  pageant  vain, 
Or  family  to  mourn  for  me, 

Or  friends  for  funeral  train. 

My  tomb,  which  my  own  hands  have  dug, 

Will  be  a  trench  profound; 
The  graves  of  thousands  of  the  dead 

With  mine  will  make  a  mound. 

Then  strip  me  of  my  uniform. 

My  arms  and  honors  proud, 
And  leave  me  but  my  blood-stained  shirt 

To  serve  me  for  a  shroud. 

A  soldier's  corpse  is  valued  not; 

Within  a  trench  to  lie 
'Tis  cast,  as  on  the  threshing  floor 

The  sheaves  are  piled  on  high. 


MEMORIAL  OF  THE  LAMENTING  SOLDIER.    207 

We  from  the  battle-field  set  out, 

And  we  have  reached  our  rest. 
Tired  soldiers  of  the  field  of  blood, 

Sleep  with  untroubled  breast! 

At  Gabriel's  trump,  our  mound  shall  stir. 

And  as  in  fresher  guise 
Eagles  their  plumage  strong  renew, 

We  to  new  life  shall  rise. 

Christ  comes  as  judge,  and  all  earth's  thrones 

Before  God's  bar  are  set. 
The  judgment  of  the  field  of  blood 

Just  God  will  not  forget. 

Ye  living  soldiers,  fare  ye  well ! 

I  leave  this  world.    I  bore 
The  sword,  and  perished  by  the  sword, 

As  Christ  foretold  of  yore. 


A  farmer  God  created  man, 
The  soil  to  dress  and  till; 

Curst  be  the  hand  whose  wicked  art 
Has  taught  him  blood  to  spill ! 


Wise  men  predict  a  golden  age 

When  peace  o'er  earth  shall  breathe. 

When  kings  shall  all  be  reconciled, 
And  swear  the  sword  to  sheathe. 


2o8  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

The  lion  shall  gentle  grow,  the  wolf 
Browse  by  the  lamb  in  peace, 

The  fields  of  blood  with  lilies  bloom, 
And  all  earth's  conflicts  cease. 

A  dream!  I  do  not  credit  it. 

Christ's  words  come  back  to  me, 
That  nation  shall  'gainst  nation  rise, 

Earth  be  a  bloody  sea. 

O  Jesus,  Saviour  bringing  peace! 

Our  world  you  came  and  saw. 
Men  are  insane;  they  have  not  yet 

Mastered  your  gospel's  law. 

Angel  of  love  incarnated ! 

You  said  all  men  that  live 
Are  brethren;  give  to  us  your  peace. 

Which  this  world  cannot  give! 


GARINE.  209 


GARINE. 

HE  dismal  news  ran  through  the  land  of  Moush : 
"Here  comes  the  Khan  Long  Timour,  fierce 
and  fell, 

The  despot  grim  who  devastates  the  world, 
And  who  across  the  earth  from  east  to  west 
Has  marched,  and  measured  it  with  his  lame  feet." 

This  heard  the  great  Amira    of  Sassoun, 
And  shook  with  fear.     The  crafty  tyrant  then 
A  lesson  learned  from  Satan.     He  cried  out, 
"Oho!     Oho!"     His  heart  swelled  high  with  pride. 
He  said,  "I  have  found  out  the  way,  the  means. 

"Lo,  all  the  people  of  the  land  of  Moush 

I  will  expel,  and  drive  them  to  Sassoun; 

All  empty  that  rich  country  will  I  leave; 

Nor  man,  nor  cat,  nor  dog  shall  there  remain. 

Then  when  Long  Timour  comes  into  our  land. 

He  will  behold  the  country  desolate. 

Village  and  town  deserted  of  their  folk; 

And,  struck  with  shame,  he  will  turn  back  again." 

He  spake,  and  gave  command  that  it  be  done. 
The  wild  tribes  of  the  mountains  of  Sassoun 
^  A  title  equivalent  to  Lord. 


210  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Gathered  like  black  clouds  when  a  storm  is  nigh, 
They  flocked  together  like  a  locust  swarm, 
And  all  came  down  upon  the  land  of  Moush. 

Terror  and  panic  then  possessed  Daron; 
Moush  was  surrounded  by  a  darksome  fog. 
The  mother  then  disowned  her  infant  child, 
The  groom  forgot  his  bride;  all  tenantless 
Their  habitations  populous  they  left. 
And  toward  the  vales  and  mountains  fled  away. 

Who  was  that  heroine  with  a  manly  soul? 
'Twas  brave  Garine  of  the  land  of  Moush. 
Her  spouse  was  dead;  she  had  an  eight  years'  child, 
Her  only  and  her  well  beloved  son. 

Garine  was  a  dame  of  noble  blood, 

A  scion  of  the  house  of  Mamigon, 

Stately  and  tall,  in  form  a  giantess. 

Her  brilliant  eyes,  like  jewels,  shone  with  light ; 

Her  face  was  serious  and  inspired  respect ; 

Her  arms  were  mighty,  full  of  strength  and  power. 

Not  crafty  she,  like  Judith   in  old  time; 

She  acted  openly,  with  fearless  heart. 

Thinking  to  shun  the  close-impending  ill, 
She  girt  about  her  waist  her  father's  sword, 
Inherited  from  aged  Mooshekh's  hand; 
She  to  her  shoulder  swung  the  shield  of  steel; 
A  brave  and  glorious  soldier  she  became. 
She  took  the  little  Mooshekh,  her  dear  son, 
Called  on  the  name  of  God,  and  took  the  road. 


GARINE. 

As  she  went  forward  free  and  fearlessly, 

Lo,  wicked  men  pursued  her.     Once  she  turned 

And  strewed  upon  the  ground  that  evil  crew; 

But  in  the  distance  when  her  eyes  beheld 

A  host  of  brutal  Koords  that  followed  still, 

She  cried  aloud:  "Thou  knowest,  O  my  God! 

I  am  a  mother  loving  well  my  son; 

But  now  my  Christian  faith  and  love  for  Thee 

Conquer  the  mother  love  within  my  breast. 

I  will  forget  parental  tenderness, 

The  natural  love  that  warms  a  mother's  heart, 

And  I  to  Thee  will  sacrifice  my  £on. 

Once  Thou  didst  hold  the  arm  of  Abraham 

Lest  he  should  sacrifice  his  only  son. 

But  do  not  Thou  hold  back  mine  arm,  O  Lord! 

Here  let  me  sacrifice  my  youthful  lamb." 

She  spoke,  and  drew  her  sword,  and  on  the  spot 
Mooshekh,  her  little  son,  she  straightway  slew. 
As,  when  we  slay  a  fowl,  it  flutters  wild, 
So  little  Mooshekh  at  his  mother's  feet 
Fluttered  and  died.     The  little  dove's  pure  soul 
Fled  forth  and  joined  the  flock  of  spirits  bright. 

"Oh!"  then  said  brave  Garine,  "I  have  saved 
His  soul  and  faith.     I  from  the  Book  have  learned 
It  is  the  spirit  that  alone  gives  life; 
The  flesh  is  empty,  void,  and  nothing  worth." 

Thus  brave  Garine  made  her  sacrifice; 
And  the  barbarians  saw  the  deed  she  did. 
And  they  were  struck  with  terror  and  amaze. 
And  where  they  stood  they  halted,  stupefied. 


212  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

But  brave  Garine  then  set  forth  again, 

And  as  an  eagle  soars  she  darted  up 

Unto  the  summit  of  a  lofty  rock. 

One  side  of  it  was  sheer,  a  precipice 

So  deep  his  brain  must  reel  who  looked  below. 

Garine  there  upon  the  rock  knelt  down, 

And  upward  turned  her  eyes  to  heaven's  height, 

And  murmured  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart: 

"Ah,  do  not  count  it  as  a  sin,  my  Lord! 

Garine  shed  the  blood  of  her  young  son. 

Thou  knowest,  Lord,  knowing  the  hearts  of  all, 

My  sacred  faith  ancestral  I  have  served 

Since  baptism:  my  virtue  I  have  kept, 

Which  is  Thy  gift,  a  grace  received  from  Thee. 

Mother  Shamoone  I  remember  well — 

An  orphan-loving,  faithful  woman  she. 

She  gave  her  seven  sons  a  sacrifice, 

And  thus  defended  she  her  holy  faith. 

Thou  knowest.  Lord,  my  sacrifice  is  small; 

Greater  by  far  was  Thine  upon  the  cross! 

Oh,  give  thy  servant  strength  to  sacrifice 

Her  life  for  Thee!     Not  from  despondency 

A  suicide,  but  as  a  volunteer, 

A  victim  to  my  love  for  Thee,  I  come!" 

These  were  the  words  that  brave  Garine  spoke. 
On  her  bright  face  she  signed  the  sacred  cross, 
And  down  that  deep  and  dreadful  precipice 
She  threw  herself,  unshrinking,  to  the  ground. 
Her  body  was  in  pieces  dashed ;  her  soul 
Fled,  and  ascended  to  the  heights  of  heaven. 


GARINE  213 

The  Angel  oped  to  her  the  heavenly  gates. 

Garine  entered  to  the  realm  of  light, 

And  there  she  found  again  her  little  dove, 

And  soul  was  joined  with  soul  in  that  bright  realm; 

The  mother  was  made  happy  with  her  son. 

Armenian  mothers,  take  example  hence! 
Whenever  you  shall  read  these  lines  of  mine, 
The  lines  that  aged  Hairig  here  has  penned. 
Be  mindful  of  Garine,  who,  to  keep 
Her  virtue  and  her  pure  God-given  faith, 
Unto  destruction  gave  her  mortal  frame. 
And  won  the  heavenly  kingdom  by  the  deed. 
Forever  blessed  be  her  memory ! 


c\T/» 


214  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


AT  EVENING. 


BY  BEDROS  TOURIAN. 


EAR,  I  loved  you  when  Armenia's  roses 

Budded  forth  upon  your  forehead  pale — 
On  the  day  those  suns,  your  eyes,  were  hidden 
Bashfully  behind  their  lashes'  veil! 


Freely  the  cool  breeze  your  path  may  visit, 
And  the  stars  gaze  on  you  without  fear. 

Only  I,  alone  amid  the  shadows. 

Tremble,  hardly  daring  to  draw  near. 

Like  a  breeze  to-day  you  flee  before  me; 

On  my  lyre  your  shade  alone  you  throw; 
Like  a  comet  from  afar  coquetting. 

While  upon  the  air  your  gold  locks  flow. 

Then  the  graveyard's  frozen  trees  all  whisper 
With  the  dead,  beneath  a  cold  wind's  breath; 

Then  my  sad  heart's  chords  give  back  an  echo 
To  their  voice,  an  echo  calling  death. 

But  the  light  sound  of  your  footstep  echoes 

Ever  and  forever  in  mine  ears, 
And  my  soul  descends,  with  sobs  and  mourning, 

Into  an  abyss  of  woe  and  tears! 


AT  EVENING.  215 

Lights  and  sounds  have  died;  no  leaf  now  rustles; 

Mute  our  hearts — no  breath  of  word  or  kiss! 
Kisses  now  and  murmurs  all  are  buried 

In  the  starry  heavens'  deep  abyss. 

Let  the  zephyr  breathe  upon  its  blossoms, 
Let  the  stars  look  down  upon  the  sea; 

Let  me  too  grow  pale,  if  but  once  only, 
When  your  ardent  glance  is  cast  on  me ! 

When  the  crescent  moon  to  the  horizon 

Blushing  sinks  on  yonder  mountain  heights, 

Then  you  vanish — then  you  walk  no  longer 
There  before  the  stars,  the  wind,  the  lights. 

Like  a  breeze  that  stirs  the  leaves  and  shakes  them. 
So  you  stirred  my  heart's  depths,  full  of  fire; 

And  you  drew  from  out  my  throbbing  bosom 
Those  keen  cords  of  flame  that  make  a  lyre. 

You  walk  forth  when  day  is  done,  my  darling, 
When  the  starry  night  is  cool  and  sweet. 

Do  you  know  how  with  your  glance  of  magic 
You  consume  my  heart  beneath  your  feet? 


2i6  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


TO  MAY. 

VIRGIN,  mother  of  the  sweet  spring  flowers! 

O  lovely  May,  in  shining  blossoms  clad! 
Why  bring  you  not  the  blossom  of  my  soul 

Among  your  many-colored  flowerets  glad? 

Ah  me!    Another  angel  may  there  be. 

The  May  of  the  soul's  flowers?     Some  happy  day 
Then  may  that  angel  come,  and  on  my  head 

Shine  with  soft  light — an  infinite  pale  May! 


MY  DEATH.  217 


MY   DEATH. 

HEN  Death's  pale  angel  stands  before  my  face, 

With  smile  unfathomable,  stern  and  chill, 
And  when  my  sorrows  with  my  soul  exhale. 
Know  yet,  my  friends,  that  I  am  living  still. 


When  at  my  head  a  waxen  taper  slim 

With  its  cold  rays  the  silent  room  shall  fill, 

A  taper  with  a  face  that  speaks  of  death. 
Yet  know,  my  friends,  that  I  am  living  still. 

When,  with  my  forehead  glittering  with  tears, 
They  in  a  shroud  enfold  me,  cold  and  chill 

As  any  stone,  and  lay  me  on  a  bier. 

Yet  know,  my  friends,  that  I  am  living  still. 

When  the  sad  bell  shall  toll — that  bell,  the  laugh 
Of  cruel  Death,  which  wakes  an  icy  thrill — 

And  when  my  bier  is  slowly  borne  along. 
Yet  know,  my  friends,  that  I  am  living  still. 

When  the  death-chanting  priests,  dark  browed,  austere, 
With  incense  and  with  prayers  the  air  shall  fill, 

Rising  together  as  they  pass  along, 

Yet  know,  my  friends,  that  I  am  living  still. 


2i8  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

When  they  have  set  my  tomb  in  order  fair, 
And  when,  with  bitter  sobs  and  wailing  shrill, 

My  dear  ones  from  the  grave  at  length  depart, 
Yet  know,  my  friends,  I  shall  be  living  still. 

But  when  my  grave  forgotten  shall  remain 

In  some  dim  nook,  neglected  and  passed  by, — 

When  from  the  world  my  memory  fades  away, 
That  is  the  time  when  I  indeed  shall  die ! 


^ 


DAfVN.  219 


DAWN. 

BY  ARCHBISHOP  KHORENE   NAR  BEY  DE   LUSIGNAN. 

OSES  upon  roses 

Spread  in  sheets  below, 
In  the  high  blue  ether 

Clouds  that  shine  like  snow, 
Lightly,  brightly,  softly, 
Spread  before  thy  feet, 
In  this  tranquil  season 

Wait  thy  face  to  greet; 
Waits  in  hope  all  nature, 
O  Aurora  sweet ! 

Radiant,  pure  she  rises, 

In  her  veil  of  white. 
With  her  floating  tresses 

Gleaming  golden  bright, 
Spreading  wide  in  ripples 

By  the  zephyrs  swayed, 
And  her  pearly  pinions 

Opening,  half  displayed — 
Gracious,  fair  Aurora, 

The  celestial  maid. 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

On  her  brow  bright  jewels 

Glow  in  loveliness, 
And  her  joyous  glances 

Heaven  and  earth  caress; 
While  her  rose-lips,  brighter 

Than  earth's  blooming  bowers, 
SmiUng  blithely,  scatter 

Perfume  sweet  in  showers, 
Making  yet  more  fragrant 

Many-colored  flowers. 

Now  the  small  birds  twitter 

'Mid  the  leaves  so  green, 
Blending  with  their  rustle; 

Hail,  O  Dawn  serene! 
Hail !  Thou  changest  darkness 

Into  sunlight  free. 
The  sad  earth  thou  makest 

Glad  and  full  of  glee. 
All  created  beings 

Cry  "All  hail!"  to  thee. 

Unto  thee  each  offers 

Its  first  gift  in  love, 
Tcnderest  gift  and  holiest; 

Cloud  that  floats  above. 
Zephyr,  crystal  streamlet, 

Flowers  and  nightingale — 
All  with  love  are  melted, 

Praise  thee,  bid  thee  hail. 
Heavenly  maiden,  lovely 

In  thy  shining  veil! 


DAWN. 

Thou  our  hearts  that  charmest 

Now  with  such  delight, 
Leave  us  not  forsaken 

In  the  grave's  dark  night! 
When  our  eyes  are  closing, 

Let  it  beam  and  shine 
Still  before  our  souls'  eyes, 

That  sweet  light  of  thine, 
Full  of  hope  and  promise, 

Dawn,  thou  maid  divine! 


33a 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  EXILE  TO  THE  SWALLOW. 


SWALLOW,  swallow,  was  it  thine, 

This  nest,  all  cold  and  drear. 
That  empty  in  this  niche  I  found 
When  first  I  entered  here? 
At  sight  of  it  mine  eyes  o'erflowed 

With  bitter  teardrops,  born 
Of  the  sad  thought  that  my  nest  too 
Lies  empty  and  forlorn. 


0  swallow,  hasten  to  thy  nest. 
And  have  no  fear  of  me! 

In  me  a  comrade  thou  shalt  find; 
A  wanderer  I,  like  thee. 

1  know  the  longing  of  thy  heart. 

The  yearning  for  thy  home; 
I  know  the  bitter  pains  of  those 
As  exiles  forced  to  roam. 


Happy  art  thou,  O  bird,  to  find 
Thy  little  nest  at  last ! 

The  time  of  thy  brief  pilgrimage 
Is  over  now  and  past. 

Forget  thy  woes,  chirp  merrily! 
Let  grief  be  left  to  me, 


THE  EXILE  TO  THE  SWALLOW.  223 

Who  know  not  of  my  wanderings 
When  there  an  end  shall  be. 

Swallow,  thou  hadst  the  hope  of  spring, 

To  reach  thy  home  nest  here; 
My  winter  ends  not;  spring  I  lost, 

Losing  my  country  dear. 
Oh,  dark  to  me  this  foreign  light! 

The  air  is  dull  and  dead, 
Bitter  the  water  that  I  drink. 

And  like  a  stone  my  bread ! 

Swallow,  when  thou  shalt  seek  again 

This  nest,  to  thee  so  dear. 
Wilt  thou  still  hear  my  trembling  voice 

Bidding  thee  welcome  here? 
If  thou  shalt  find  my  humble  cot 

Empty  and  silent  stand, 
Bear  to  my  grave  a  drop  of  dew 

Brought  from  my  fatherland ! 


<SW 


224  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  ARMENIAN   GIRL. 

M.  PoRTOUKALiAN  was  among  the  founders  of  the  Ar- 
menian patriotic  movement.  Born  in  Constantinople  about 
1850,  in  his  school  days  he  came  under  the  influence  of  Chri- 
mian,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  spreading  education  in 
Armenia.  He  became  an  editor  and  teacher,  and  organized 
a  strong  society  which  founded  many  schools.  In  Van, 
besides  a  Normal  School  for  general  purposes,  he  started  a 
Sunday  school  to  teach  patriotism.  The  j-oung  people  were 
so  unwilling  to  study  on  Sunday  that  at  first  he  had  to  pay 
them  ten  cents  apiece  to  come;  but  they  became  so  enthusias- 
tic that  many  of  them  later  ga\-e  not  only  their  money  but  their 
lives  to  the  cause.  The  Turkish  governn^.cnt  suppressed  his 
paper,  and  repeatedly  closed  his  schools;  but  he  had  educated 
a  generation  of  boys  in  progressive  ideas.  About  thirty 
years  ago  he  went  to  Marseilles,  France,  and  started  his 
paper,  "Armenia,"  which  he  has  published  ever  since,  at  the 
cost  of  much  sacrifice.  He  organized  the  "  .\rmenian  Patriotic 
Association,"  which  soon  spread  into  Persia,  Turkey,  Europe 
and  America.  It  was  a  great  inspiration  to  all  those 
Armenians  who  cherished  revolutionary  ideals,  and  it 
influenced  the  formation  of  the  various  revolutionary 
societies,  the  Hunchagists,  Trochagists,  etc.  'Mr.  Portouka- 
lian,  however,  is  not  an  ultra  radical.  He  has  always  ad\ised 
against  revolutionary  demonstrations,  foreseeing  that  the}- 
would  lead  to  massacres.  He  felt  that  the  first  necessity  was 
education.  He  has  written  a  number  of  books  and  many 
political  pamphlets,  as  well  as  poems  and  patriotic  songs. 
¥oT  nearly  half  a  century,  he  has  been  a  devoted  and  self-sac- 
rificing worker  for  his  people. 

N  my  country  laid  in  ruins,  where  the  wrecks 
of   churches,  thrones. 
Grand  buildings,  crowns  and  palaces  upon  the 
grcund  are  strewn. 
You   would    think    that   their   first    glory   they    now 
silently  lament. 
A  gentle  maid,  with  face  of  woe,  I  see  there,  all  alone. 


THE  ARMENIAN  GIRL.  225 

What  is  this  voice  of  mourning  that  she  utters  from 
her  heart? 
What  is  this  flood  of  tear-drops  from  her  eyes,  as 
deep  she  grieves? 
They  wet  her  red  cheeks,  covered  by  her  dark  curls,  as 
the  dew 
Of  morn  the  rose's  trembling  head,  all  covered  by  its 
leaves. 

Why  so  abundant  are  the  tears  outgushing  from  her 

eyes? 

Lo,  signs  of  blood  (oh,  terror!)  upon  her  pupils  soft! 

Angels  of  heaven,  who  see  those  tears,  have  pity  and 

descend, — 

Collect  them  in  a  crystal  cup  and  carry  them  aloft! 

But  no,  not  so;  nay,  leave  them;  to  us  those  tears  are 
pearls. 
They  sweeten  the  sad  rivers  whose  bitter  waters  flow 
Forth  from  the  ruins;  from  each  tear  the  gentle  maiden 
sheds. 
Amid  the  ruins,  lilies  white  shall  sprout,  and  bud,  and 
blow. 

Like  the  spring  breeze,   a  perfume  sweet  she  leaves 
where'er  she  walks. 
She  comes  v.ith  trembling  lips   to   kiss  the  ruins. 
Kneeling  low, 
With  hair  disheveled,   arms  outstretched,  and  tearful 
eyes  upraised 
Toward  heaven,  lo,  lying  prostrate,  she  laments  in 
grief  and  woe. 


226  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Oh,  let  all  the  world  be  silent!    We  must  hear  the 
maid's  lament. 
Why  mourns  she  thus?     What  suflferings  are  those 
she  has  to  bear? 
What  heart  but  must  be  horror-struck  to  hear  her 
trembling  voice 
Relate  her  sorrows  infinite,  in  accents  of  despair? 

"O  God!"  she  cried,  "how  long  wilt  thou  leave  desolate 
this  land? 
How  long  with  pangs  unnumbered  shall  my  aching 
heart  be  thrilled? 
Which   must   I   mourn — the   ruins,   or    my   brothers' 
shameful  strife, 
Who   smite   each   other   always?    Oh,   these   days 
with  grief  are  filled! 

"How  wretched  is  my  nation's  lot,  girt  round  with 
many  woes. 
With  snakes  within  and  snakes  without,  beset  on 
every  hand! 
Sons,  traitors,  'gainst  their  mother  arm;  base  writers 
who  take  bribes 
Would  teach  the  people  conscience  and  the  love  of 
native  land! 

"God  ;,n  1  religion,  cruel  ones,  for  you  exist  no  more; 

Your  god  is  gold,  I  know  full  well;  for  it  you  sacrifice 
All  things  beside,  whate'er  they  be;  but  oh!  from  your 
hearts'  depths 

Does  not  one  voice  to  torture  you  at  any  time  arise?" 


THE  ARMENIAN  MAID'S  LAMENT.  227 


THE  ARMENIAN   MAID'S  LAMENT. 

[HEN   my  Armenia's  name  I  hear,  my  heart 
with  violence  throbs; 
When   all  her  sorrows  I   recall,  tears   flood 
my  eyes  like  rain. 
Was  ever  any  country  so  luckless  and  forlorn? 

With  none  to  listen  to  her  voice,  she  cries  in  bitter 
pain. 

Rise,  Vartan,  Dikran,  Aram,  and  your  Mother  once 
behold! 
Let  her  laments  awake  you  from  the  graves  where  ye 
abide ! 
And  see,  see  how  the  house  of  Haig  in  exile  wanders 
now! 
'Tis  banished  without  pity,  stricken  sore  on  every 
side. 

Ah,  Haiasdan,  my  mother  dear,  how  long,  alas!  how 
long 
Shall  your  children  sigh  far  from  you?     How  long 
must  you  still  roam? 
How  long  before  this  motherless  Armenian  maid  shall 
reach 
Your  sacred  arms,  and  wet  with  tears  j'our  tender 
hands,  at  home? 


2  28  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

If  I  could  fly  and  lay  my  head  upon  my  mother's  breast, 
And  quench  with  joyful  tears  the  flame  with  which 
my  heart  is  rife! 
Let  me  be  once  caressed  by  her,  and  greet  her  with  a 
kiss, 
Then  let  the  foeman's  whetted  steel  there  sacrifice 
my  life ! 

Come,  brothers  and  fair  sisters,  join  hands  and  let  us 
work! 
Our  enemy  is  ignorance,  look  not  for  one  elsewhere. 
This  foe  has  wrought  us  evil,  from  our  mother  made  us 
part. 
We'll  conquer  it  and  drive  it  forth  by  study,  love  and 
care. 

Brothers  and  sisters,  oh,  how  long  will  you  indifferent 
be? 
How  long  must  we  let  tares  be  sown  amid  our  fields 
of  grain? 
Ah,  must  we  waken  when  the  foe  destroys  and  scatters 
all 
Unto  the  winds,   till  naught  for  a  memorial  shall 
remain? 

Maid,  let  your  hopeless  heart  be  cleft,  your  smothered 
wail  burst  forth, 
And  let  it  ring  on  every  side,  beneath  the  heaven's 
cope! 
Yea,  let  it  reach  Armenia,  and  your  mother,  pitying, 
hear ! 
Perhaps  she  will  console  you,  since  in  aliens  is  no 
hope. 


THE  ARMENIAN  MAID'S  LAMENT.  229 

Alas,  I  am  afraid  this  pain  will  bring  me  to  the  grave, 

And  none  will  echo  more  my  voice  when  I  "Armenia!" 

cry. 

On  every  side  is  silence;  you  would  think  that  here 

death  reigned, 

And  that,  'mid  death  and  ruins,  a  lonely  owl  was  I. 

Ah,  Haiasdan,  to  you  I  give  my  heart  and  soul!  Accept! 

Let  me  die,  and  my  Armenia  arise,  if  this  may  be! 
Am  I  imprisoned  for  her  sake,   a   palace  is  the   jail; 

And  if  m.y  hands  and  feet  are  chained,  that  too  is 
joy  to  me. 

If  exiled,  forced  by  want  to  roam,  for  my   Armenia's 
sake. 
To  me  shall  be  a  paradise  each  place  beneath  the  sky. 
Let  me  but  reach  my  aim,  and  then  be  to  the  gallows 
led; 
"Armenia!"   from   the    gallows-tree   my   strangling 
voice  shall  cry. 


^ 


230  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  IMPRISONED  REVOLUTIONIST. 

MiHRAN  Damadian  was  born  in  Constantinople  about 
1863.  He  was  educated  at  the  Armenian  Catholic  Seminary 
at  Venice,  Italy.  He  became  a  teacher  in  the  Sassoun 
district,  and  was  much  beloved.  With  H.  Murad,  he  led  the 
fighting  against  the  Turks,  about  the  year  1893.  He  was 
taken  prisoner,  and  his  captors  broke  his  leg  to  prevent  any 
possibility  of  his  escape.  He  was  sent  in  chains  to  Constan- 
tinople, and  kept  for  some  time  in  prison.  He  is  now  living 
in  Alexandria. 


Another  revolutionist, 
Turk,  you  have  caught   and  in  your  prison 
pent. 

I  too  have  fallen  a  victim  to  your  wrath; 
But  know,  O  tyrant,  that  I  am  content. 

This  is  that  dungeon,  terrible  and  dark, 

To  which  in  bonds  your  cruel  hand,  blood  red, 

Brought  many  another  like  me;  but  of  them 
Even  the  awful  prison  stood  in  dread. 

Their  hearts  were  dauntless  and  their  wills  of  iron, 

Their  souls  invincible  by  any  foes. 
You  swallowed  them,  but  straightway  from  their  bones 

Against  you  new  avengers  there  arose. 


THE  IMPRISONED  REVOLUTIONIST.        231 

Into  this  dungeon  Greeks  and  Servians 

Entered,  and  divers  torments  they  passed  through, 
And  Montenegrins,  poor  Bulgarians — 

But  now  with  pride  they  all  boast  over  you. 

I  kiss  this  rusty  chain,  with  which  you  bound 
Those  heroes,  who  defied  your  utmost  powers; 

Whole  nations  have  been  ransomed  by  their  blood. 
Tremble,  O  tyrant !     Future  days  are  ours. 


From  the  black  clouds  the  lightning  flashes  out ; 

Even  the  cold  flint  gives  forth  fire;  at  morn 
In  the  dark  heavens  the  glorious  sun  doth  rise; 

And  from  his  mother's  pangs  the  child  is  born. 

So  shall  the  future's  joy  and  melody 

Come  from  our  present  sighs  and  tears  and  pains. 
Against  you  a  whole  nation  shall  arise, 

Roused  by  the  clanking  of  our  bloody  chains. 


I  enter  prison  gladly,  kiss  my  chains. 

Embrace  the  darkness  with  its  chilling  breath. 

Better  the  gallows  is  than  your  base  yoke, 
And  revolutionists  can  sport  with  death. 

But  you,  O  tyrant,  wherefore  do  you  quake. 
You,  brave  and  mighty?     Are  you  terrified 

Lest  you  should  not  forget  my  death?     Why  fear 
When  you  have  thrust  your  sword  into  my  side? 


232  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

But  no — methinks  that  you  at  last  have  felt 
Your  persecutions  will  be  futile  all; 

And  that,  despite  your  efforts,  in  the  end 

The  Armenian  nation  will  be  freed  from  thrall. 

Then  what  to  me  is  prison,  torture,  chains? 

"Long  live  Armenia!"  my  last  sigh  shall  be. 
What  care  I  even  for  death?     By  this  my  death 

The  martyr  nation  shall  at  last  be  free! 


FURFURCAR  {ROARING  CLIFF).  233 


FURFUR  CAR   (ROARING   CLIFF). 


FuRFURCAR  is  an  overhanging  mountain  with  inaccessible 
rocky  sides,  around  which,  at  the  mouth  of  each  pass,  were 
ranged  the  seven  villages  that  made  up  Dalvorig.  Anyone 
climbing  the  path  from  Porkh  to  Hosnood  hears  the  roaring 
(in  local  dialect  furfur)  of  the  wind.  This  peculiar  sound  is 
caused  by  the  fierce  current  of  the  wind  striking  the  folds  of 
the  rocks;  and  from  this  the  place  took  its  name. 

Zovasar,  Andok,  Maratoog  and  Gepin  are  the  highest 
summits  of  the  mountains  of  Sassoun.  Furfurcar  is  not  as 
high,  but  the  passes  and  valleys  that  surround  it,  and  the 
perpendicular  height  of  its  sides,  make  it  almost  impreg- 
nable. For  many  years  its  brave  mountaineers  were  able  to 
defend  themselves  successfully  against  all  attacks.  This 
poem  was  written  while  they  were  still  unconquered. 


EFUGE  of  Dalvorig's  valiant  men, 

Of  strife  and  dangerous  days! 
Lo,  all  Armenia  towards  thee 
To-day  in  hope  doth  gaze. 
Thou  black  and  naked  mountain-side, 

That,  when  winds  o'er  thee  sweep, 
Dost  like  a  dragon  hiss,  or  shore 

Wave  tortured  of  the  deep — 
Thou  wild  and  desert  Roaring  Cliff 
O'er  Porkh  that  risest  steep! 


234  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Many  Armenian  hearts,  methinks, 

Till  now  are  turned  to  stone; 
No  love  or  pity  wakes  in  them 

Their  brothers',  sisters'  moan; 
But  passion  and  fierce  jealousy 

Have  in  them  made  their  nest. 
O  that  thine  heights  may  dry  our  tears, 

Put  heart  within  our  breast ! 
O  Roaring  Cliff,  protect  the  poor, 

The  plundered  and  oppressed ! 

A  monument  of  freedom, 

All  glorious  dost  thou  stand; 
The  ice  and  snow,  to  torrents  turned, 

Lick  at  thy  feet  the  sand. 
Thee  Zovasar  and  Maratoog, 

Andok  and  Gepin  see 
With  envy;  those  far-shadowing  mounts 

Are  high,  but  thou  art  free. 
Of  our  deliverance,  Roaring  Cliff, 

Do  thou  the  cradle  be! 

Lighthouse  of  the  Armenians  thou, 

Fear  of  the  wild  Koord's  heart; 
Against  the  cruel  tyrant  Turk 

Our  fortress-wall  thou  art. 
Only  to  lions  dost  tliou  give  room, 

In  den  and  awful  cave; 
Only  the  eagle  on  thy  peaks 

A  resting  place  may  crave. 
O  Roaring  Cliff,  be  evermore 

The  stronghold  of  the  brave! 


FURFURCAR  (ROARING  CLIFF).  235 

If  against  Dalvorig  countless  foes 

Should  come,  and  bid  us  pay 
Twenty  years'  tax,    "  Come  take  it,  then!" 

The  Armenian  will  say. 
But,  drawing  to  the  Roaring  Cliff, 

He  on  the  foe  will  rain 
Bullets  and  stones,  instead  of  gold 

With  interest  in  its  train. 
O  wild  and  rocky  Roaring  Cliff, 

Be  then  their  shield  again! 

Let  brave  Armenians  muster 

From  every  village  home, 
From  Berm,  Karag  and  Khiyank, 

From  Khoulp  and  Muchtegh  come; 
Let  Sim's  heights  too  be  populous; 

Fight,  o'er  the  precipice 
Roll  down  the  foe,  that  Roaring  Cliff 

May  see  a  sight  like  this — 
Koords,  Turks  by  thousands,  fallen  down 

Within  its  deep  abyss! 

Let  Sassoun's  lions  assemble, 

Fierce  roaring,  on  thy  crown; 
Thence,  like  a  raging  torrent, 

Let  them  toward  Moush  rush  down. 
Mowing  before  them  briar  and  thorn! 

Let  field  and  town  arise. 
And  stretch,  to  help  Sassoun's  brave  men. 

Their  hands,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

^  A  favorite  device  of  oppression  was  to  demand  over  again 
taxes  that  had  already  been  paid. 


236  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

O  Roaring  Cliff,  give  to  them  strength, 
Courage,  and  high  emprise! 

And  when  Armenia  shall  be  free, 

A  fortress  we  will  rear, 
Named  Roaring  Cliff;  Armenia's  flag 

Shall  o'er  it  glitter  clear. 
Let  the  surrounding  valleys 

And  mountains  joyful  be ! 
Let  the  young  matrons  and  the  maids 

All  clap  their  hands  for  glee ! 
And  let  the  cannon,  that  great  day. 

Boom  out,  with  loud  acclaim; 
Let  Roaring  Cliff,  Armenia's  pride, 

Be  aye  an  honored  name; 
And  let  our  land,  from  age  to  age. 

Still  celebrate  its  fame! 


LAMENT  OF  MARTYRED  SUM  PAD'S  MOTHER.  237 


THE     LAMENT    OF     MARTYRED     SUMPAD'S 
MOTHER. 

This  poem  commemorates  one  out  of  countless  acts  of  op- 
pression. Sumpad,  a  young  man  of  Alashgerd,  had  just 
finished  his  studies  at  Erzerum,  and  was  on  his  way  to  the 
village  of  Pakarich  as  a  teacher  in  1888.  He  was  arrested 
and  searched,  and  among  his  papers  was  found  a  poem  one 
line  of  which  read,  "The  Turk  is  as  wild  as  a  wild  cedar  tree." 
Sumpad  was  imprisoned  and  severely  beaten.  One  morning 
he  was  found  dead  in  his  cell,  the  body  bearing  marks  of 
poison.     His  mother  and  his  sweetheart  died  of  grief. 


Y  dearest  Sumpad,  my  beloved  son, 

Flower  of  my  heart  and  light  of  my  sad  eyes! 
The  Turk  hath  snatched  thee  from  my  arms, 
alas ! 
Thou  for  thy  nation  wast  a  sacrifice. 


"As  wild  as  a  wild  cedar  is  the  Turk," 

Thou  saidst ;  the  enemy  thy  speech  o'erheard. 

The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  grieve; 

The  wicked  one  took  vengeance  for  that  word. 

Hungering  and  thirsting  for  Armenian  blood. 
He  threw  thee  into  prison,  O  my  dear, 

And  chained  thee  cruelly;  thy  pleading  prayers 
The  God  of  the  Armenians  did  not  hear. 


238  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

In  Erzerum's  dungeon,  in  a  corner  flung, 
Long  didst  thou  pine,  and  pant  for  air  in  vain; 

And  when  thou  didst  yield  up  thy  latest  breath, 
Thou,  for  thy  mother,  couldst  but  clasp  thy  chain. 

Oh,  let  it  reach  to  highest  heaven,  the  voice 
Of  my  lament,  a  mother's  sighing  breath! 

And  let  Armenia's  valiant-hearted  men 

Take  vengeance  for  my  son's  untimely  death! 

Short  was  thy  life  as  that  of  any  flower; 

Soon  came  the  sunset  and  the  daylight's  close. 
Pass  thou  to  heaven,  afar  from  this  sad  earth! 

There  from  thy  sorrows  thou  shalt  find  repose. 

Thither  will  come  thy  sweetheart,  and  I  too. 
To  clasp  each  other,  safe  beyond  earth's  strife. 

I  curse  my  fate,  but  bless  thee,  O  my  son, 
Since  for  thy  country  thou  didst  give  thy  life! 


<»/« 


THE  SNOW.  239 


THE  SNOW. 


Arshag  Mahdesian,  journalist  and  poet,  was  bom  in 
Paloo.  He  was  graduated  from  Euphrates  College  at  Har- 
poot,  and  took  a  graduate  course  in  English  literature  at  Yale 
University.  He  has  been  actively  connected  with  the  Ar- 
menian propaganda,  has  edited  several  periodicals  in  English 
devoted  to  Armenian  topics,  and  at  present  edits  in  New  York 
the  English  magazine,  "The  New  Armenia." 


HE  crystal  dream  of  the  deep-souled  sea, 

Enthralled  by  the    glances    the  blue  sky 
throws  — 
The  azure  fairy  that  bends  above- 
One  day  on  the  wind's  wings  toward  her 
rose. 


But  now,  repulsed  by  her  changing  love. 
It  falls  down  sadly  and  silently. 

To  be  crushed  on  earth  under  careless  feet — 
The  crystal  dream  of  the  deep-souled  sea. 

When  it  weeps  its  way  to  the  sea  once  more. 
Forgetting  sorrow  and  bitterness, 

Toward  the  azure  fairy  again  'twill  soar, 
Allured  by  the  golden  sun's  caress. 


240  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THUS  SPAKE   MAN. 


B^ifSi  ^^^  sunk  in  thought   I   wandered  in  a  city 
5^«  dead  by  fire, 

■  ■»?QgAl|  Where  walls,  like  blackened  skeletons,  in  ruin 

rose  on  high. 
Enshrouded  by  the  shadow  of  Destruction  all  things 

seemed. 
Smothered  beneath  the  sun  that  shone  within  a  tomb- 
like sky. 

Destruction  with  its  breath  of  flame  in  triumph  boasted 

high: 
"Thus  in  one  day,  one  moment,  I  destroy  the  pride 

and  grace 
Of  v.orks  that  Man  has  taken  years  to  rear  upon  the 

earth; 
And  low  he  lies  before  me  when  I  show  him  my  stern 

face!" 

But  Man,  of  mighty  will  power,  when  he  heard  this 

haughty  boast. 
Raised   up  his  sorrow-laden  head,  and  like  a  giant 

cried : 
"Destruction,  you  arc  longing  for  my  downfall  and 

defeat. 
But  you  are  all  in  error,  you  are  blinded  by  your  pride. 


THUS  SPAKE  MAN.  241 

"Creating,  still  creating,  I  shall  combat  you  for  aye. 
You  may  destroy,  but  I  shall  build  forevermore,  with 

joy, 

Till  Godhood  shall  awake  in  me,  and  when  that  day 

shall  dawn 
Then  even  grim  Destruction  itself  I  shall  destroy!" 


^ 


MISCELLANEOUS 


LOVE  SONG. 


Nahabed  Koutchak  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  isth 
century.  Although  he  wrote  only  love  songs,  he  is  revered 
as  a  saint,  and  his  grave  near  Van  is  a  place  of  pilgrimage. 

HY  face  is  like  a  moon  that  shines  on  earth, 
Like  a  thick  night  thy  clustering  tresses  be; 
Apples  of  paradise  thy  temples  are, 

And  thy  deep  eyes  were  lent  thee  by  the  sea. 

Thou  hast  arched  brows  and  dark,  dark  eyes,  my  love; 

Peerless  art  thou  among  earth's  countless  girls. 
Thine  eyelashes  are  arrows  to  my  heart ; 

Thy  mouth  is  a  moist  tulip,  full  of  pearls. 


THE  LAKE  OF  VAN.  243 


THE  LAKE  OF  VAN, 

Raffi  (Hagop  Melik  Hagopian)  was  born  in  the  village  of 
Phayajouk  in  Salmast,  Persia,  in  1835,  the  son  of  a  prominent 
merchant.  Business  reverses  forced  his  father  to  take  him 
from  school  and  put  him  to  work.  In  1858  he  traveled 
through  Turkish  Armenia,  and  his  soul  was  stirred  by  the 
injustice  and  oppression  suffered  by  the  Armenians.  In  1872, 
when  Ardzrouni  started  in  Tifiis  his  famous  paper,  "Mushak" 
(The  Workman),  Raffi  became  a  regular  contributor.  Aroused 
by  the  terrible  events  of  those  days,  he  wrote  for  it,  as  serials, 
a  number  of  patriotic  novels — "The  Fool,"  "Sheik  Jelalled- 
din"  and  others — which  thrilled  the  people's  hearts  and  at- 
tained immense  popularity.  Some  were  historical  novels 
in  the  style  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  died  in  1888,  much 
regretted. 


EEP  silence  everywhere  — a  hush  profound! 
One  might  imagine  nature  to  be  dead. 
Sitting  here  mournfully,  a  pilgrim  lone, 
O  brilliant  moon,  I  see  thee  overhead. 


Since  the  beginning  of  the  world  and  time. 

Moon,  thou  hast  run  thy  course.     Oh,  hast  thou  seen 

The  poor  Armenians,  once  so  fortunate, 

And  dost  thou  now  behold  their  sufferings  keen? 

I  wonder  if  thou  too,  like  me,  O  moon, 

Seeing  Armenia  'neath  barbarian  feet, 
Dost  shed  salt  tears  of  grief  and  bitterness, 

And  in  thy  heart  do  piercing  arrows  meet? 


244  ARMENIAN   POEMS. 

Thy  heart  is  like  a  rock,  thy  conscience  dead. 

How  many  massacres  have  met  thine  eye, 
How  many  a  carnage !  yet  thou  buildest  now 

Again  a  bright  arch  o'er  Armenia's  sky. 

Wherefore  this  silence?     Speak  to  me,  O  lake! 

Wilt  thou  not  weep  with  me,  whose  heart  is  rent? 
O  breezes,  stir  the  waves  to  billows  high. 

And  with  these  waters  let  my  tears  be  blent! 

From  the  beginning  all  things  thou  hast  seen 
That  in  Armenia  happened.     Tell  us,  pray, 

Whether  Armenia,  once  a  garden  fair, 
Shall  always  be  a  thorny  desert  gray? 

Oh,  can  it  be,  our  nation,  full  of  woe. 

Shall  'neath  a  foreign  prince's  sway  lie  prone? 

Oh,  can  it  be,  the  Armenians  and  their  sons 
Are  found  unworthy  before  God's  high  throne? 


Will  a  day  come  when  from  Mt.  Ararat 
A  banner  shall  be  seen,  by  breezes  fanned. 

And  when  Armenian  pilgrims  everywhere 
Shall  start  for  their  beloved  fatherland? 


'Tis  hard,  O  Heavenly  Ruler!  but  inspire 

Their  souls,  and  let  Thy  light  of  knowledge  flame 

O'er  them,  to  show  them  what  is  human  life — 
They  by  their  works  shall  glorify  Thy  name ! 


THE  LAKE  OF  VAN.  245 

Upon  the  lake  there  shone  a  sudden  light; 

A  graceful  maid  rose  from  the  waters  there; 
A  lighted  lantern  in  one  hand  she  bore, 

In  one  a  shining  lyre  of  ivory  fair. 

Was  she  some  nymph,  some  peerless  angel?     Nay, 
A  matchless  fair  Armenian  Muse  was  she. 

Muse,  read  the  fate  of  the  Armenians! 
The  present  and  the  future  tell  to  me! 

That  sweet  celestial  spirit  spoke:  "Good  news 
I  bring  to  thee,  young  pilgrim!     Dry  thine  eyes. 

New,  happy  days  shall  come;  when  reigns  God's  will 
Freely,  the  Golden  Age  again  shall  rise. 


"Armenia's  Muses  will  awake  again, 

And  her  Parnassus  blossom  gloriously; 
The  car  of  Phoebus,  shedding  light  abroad, 

Shall  circle  round  Armenia's  gloomy  sky. 

"We  too,  like  thee,  passed  many  mournful  days. 

When  a  dark  night,  that  seemed  it  ne'er  would  cease, 

Enwrapped  Armenia;  and  we  too,  dear  youth. 
Have  now  received  the  olive  branch  of  peace. 


"Wipe  thy  lyre's  rusted  strings  with  joy  to-day, 
Go  to  Armenia  with  an  ardent  song! 

Awake  the  zeal  of  the  Armenians, 

Their  zeal  benumbed  in  lethargy  so  long. 


246  ARM  EX  I  AN  POEMS. 

"The  time  has  come,  the  time  so  long  desired; 

Fulfilled  is  now  the  old  prophetic  word; 
The  day  will  dawn;  behold  the  morning  star, 

A  sign  made  visible — thus  saith  the  Lord!" 

Then  darkness  fell,  the  figure  disappeared; 

But  long  was  heard  the  voice  of  swee:  ness  rare, 
Mixed  with  the  murmur  of  the  lapping  waves, 

And  aromatic  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

O  happy  news!     O  tidings  glad  and  sweet! 

What  joy,  fair  Muse,  for  sad  and  sorrowing  men! 
Tell  us,  reveal  if  it  be  possible 

For  a  dead  corpse  to  wake  and  live  again! 


"^^ 


THE  EAGLE'S  LOVE.  247 


THE  EAGLE'S  LOVE. 

Shoushanik  Kourghinian  was  born  at  Alexandropol  in 
1876.  She  soon  became  known  through  her  contributions  to 
the  press.  Her  first  volume  of  collected  poems,  "The  Tolling 
Bells  at  Dawn,"  appeared  in  1907.  Most  of  them  are  poems 
of  freedom  and  of  the  labor  movement.  She  has  had  little 
schooling,  but  has  educated  herself. 

HE  eagle  sat  upon  the  rocky  verge; 

He   sat   and   sang  — the  wild  notes  filled 
the  air. 
He  saw  the  maiden  in  the  vale  below; 

He  marked  how  beautiful  she  was,  how  fair. 

"Good  girl,  thou  maiden  like  the  reindeer  fleet! 

How  sad  it  is  thou  hast  not  learned  to  fly ! 
In  silence,  in  that  place  of  shadow  deep, 

Thou  like  a  flower  wilt  fade  away  and  die. 

"O  lovely  maid,  if  thou  couldst  only  fly. 

Queen  would  I  make  thee  of  my  rocky  steep ! 

And  if  thine  eyes  grew  heavy,  on  my  wings 
I  with  sweet  songs  would  cradle  thee  to  sleep. 

"To  me  those  eyes  of  thine  are  darksome  night, 
Thy  smile  a  burning  sun,  like  that  above. 

The  heaven  vast  would  not  rule  over  thee, 
But  would  become  thy  vassal,  for  thy  love. 


248  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

"I  wonder  if  thou  canst  not  fly  at  all? 

Who  gave  thee  birth,  devoid  of  wings  for  flight? 
I  wonder  if  thou  never  in  thy  life 

Hast  longed  to  soar  in  air,  all  free  and  light?" 

Thus  the  proud  eagle  from  the  rocky  verge 
Sang,  longing  for  the  maiden  for  his  mate. 

He  flew  away,  and  soared  o'er  hills  and  vales, 
Mourning  and  grieving  for  the  maiden's  fate. 


FATHERLAND.  249 


taEi 


FATHERLAND. 

AvEDiK  IssAHAKiAN  was  bom  in  Alexandropol  in  1875.  He 
received  part  of  his  education  in  Germany.  He  began  to 
write  in  i8gi.  His  collected  poems,  "  Songs  and  Wounds," 
appeared  in  1903. 

E,  my  fatherland,  how  lovely  thou  arti 
Thy   mountain  peaks   are  lost   in   the  mists 

of  heaven. 
Thy  waters  are  sweet,  thy  breezes  are  sweet; 

Only  thy  children  are  in  seas  of  blood. 

May  I  die  for  thy  soil,  thou  priceless  fatherland! 

Oh,  it  is  little  if  I  die  with  one  life! 

Would  that  I  had  a  thousand  and  one  lives 

To  offer  thee,  all  from  my  heart. 

To  die  for  thy  sorrow  with  a  thousand  lives! 

Let  me  offer  myself  for  thy  children,  for  love  of  thee! 

Let  me  keep  for  myself  only  one  life. 

That  I  may  sing  the  praise  of  thy  glory. 

That  I  may  soar  high  like  the  skylark 

On  the  rising  of  thy  new  day,  noble  fatherland, 

And  sing  sweetly,  praise  loudly 

Thy  bright  sun,  thou  free  fatherland! 


250  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  SURE  HOPE. 

BY  RAPHAEL    PATKANIAN. 

ET  the  wind  blow  cold,  let  it  beat  my  face, 
Let  the  clouds  above  heavy  snow-tlakes  fling, 
Let  the  north  wind  blow,  raging  all  it  will, — 
Yet  I  live  in  hope  soon  or  late  comes  spring. 

Let  the  heavy  clouds  make  the  clear  sky  dark, 
Let  the  dense  fogs  cover  the  earth  from  sight, 
Let  the  elements  be  together  mixed, 
Yet  I  know  the  sun  will  again  be  bright. 

Let  harsh  trials  come,  persecutions  rage. 
And  the  light  grow  dim  of  the  sun  on  high; 
To  Armenian  hearts,  pain  is  naught  to  dread — 
But  the  poor  man's  hope  must  not  fade  and  die! 


f$» 


THE  LULLAB  Y  OF  NAZI.  251 


THE  LULLABY  OF  NAZI. 

AvEDis  Aharonian,  born  at  Igtir,  Erivan,  in  1866,  has 
written  novels,  short  stories,  Uterary  criticisms,  dramas  and 
poems.  At  the  time  of  Abdul  Hamid's  massacres,  he  was 
living  near  the  frontier  between  Turkey  and  Russia,  and  he 
saw  the  sufferings  of  the  refugees,  and  took  part  in  the  relief 
work.  His  graphic  tales,  called  out  by  these  events,  made  a 
deep  impression.  While  in  the  Caucasus  a  few  years  ago,  he 
was  imprisoned  by  the  Russian  government  as  a  political 
offender,  and  he  came  out  with  broken  health.  His  writings 
are  highly  esteemed. 

H,  sleep,  my  little  one;  oh,  sleep  once  more! 
Thou   need'st    not   weep,    for   I   have  wept 
full  sore. 

The  blind  wild  geese  flew,  screaming  mournfully, 
Across  our  heavens  black,  o'er  vale  and  hill. 

Blinded  they  were  among  our  mountains  high! 
Thou  need'st  not  weep,  for  I  have  wept  my  fill. 

The  gale  is  moaning  in  the  forests  dark; 

'Tis  the  lament  of  homeless  corpses  chill. 
Ah,  many  and  many  a  corpse  unburied  lies! 

Thou  need'st  not  weep,  for  I  have  wept  my  fill. 

Laden  with  tears,  the  caravan  passed  by, 

Knelt  in  the  forest  black,  and  stays  there  still. 

It  was  our  land's  calamities  and  woes! 
Thou  need'st  not  weep,  for  I  have  wept  my  fill. 


252  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Beads  have  I  strung  and  on  thy  cradle  bound, 
To  guard  thee  from  the  foeman's  evil  eye. 

Oh,  sleep  and  grow,  my  little  one,  make  haste! 
Thou  need'st  not  weep;  my  tears  were  seldom  dry. 

My  milk  has  frozen  on  thy  pallid  lips; 

'Tis  bitter,  and  thou  dost  not  want  it  more; 
With  it  is  mixed  the  poison  of  my  grief. 

Thou  need'st  not  weep,  for  I  have  wept  full  sore. 

Oh,  with  my  milk  drink  in  my  black  grief  too! 

Let  it  black  vengeance  in  thy  soul  instill! 
Shoot  up,  my  darling,  grow  to  stature  tall! 

Thou  need'st  not  weep,  for  I  have  wept  my  fill. 


THE  MARTYRS  OF  AVARAIR.  253 


THE   MARTYRS  OF  AVARAIR. 

BY   BISHOP   KAREKIN   SERVANTZDIANTZ. 

F  Coghtn's  patriot  bards  are  silent  now, 

Whose  songs  of  old  wreathed  heroes   with 
renown, 

Then  let  immortal  spirits  come  from  heaven. 
Let  them  descend,  Armenia's  brave  to  crown. 

Let  flocks  of  angels  come  from  heaven,  and  sit 
On  Ararat's  high  top,  where  cloud-wreaths  brood. 

God  has  descended  unto  Haiasdan 
To  scent  the  savor  of  Armenian  blood. 

O  clouds,  fly  far  away  from  Shavarshan ! 

Shed  there  no  more  your  dews  through  darkening  air, 
For  Shavarshan  is  watered  by  the  blood 

Of  the  Armenian  brave  who  perished  there. 

No  grass,  no  rose  springs  up  or  blossoms  there 
Upon  that  field  which  is  our  heroes'  tomb; 

But  where  the  mighty  Vartan  fell  and  died. 
The  flower  of  sacred  faith  shall  bud  and  bloom. 

Brave  Egiche,  the  sculptor,  to  Ardaz 

Comes  with  his  pen  in  hand,  and  fair  and  straight 
He  cuts  and  measures,  he  inscribes  and  stamps 

The  valiant  Vartan's  life  and  death  and  fate. 


254  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

O  Ararat,  raise  monasteries,  shrines, 

Domes  cross  surmounted,  temples  fair  to  see, 

Gospel  and  cross,  a  lasting  monument 
That  worthy  of  great  Vartan's  name  shall  be ! 

Shine  on  the  mountain  chain  of  Kaght,  O  sun! 

In  its  dark  niches  let  your  beams  arise. 
'T  was  there  brave  Humayag  in  battle  fell, 

'T  is  there  that  he,  a  holy  martyr,  lies. 

Moon,  o'er  the  bones  of  the  Armenians 

Watch  with  your  wakeful  eye  from  heaven's  blue  deep, 
And  with  the  happy  dews  of  smiling  May 

Sprinkle  the  lonely  graves  wherein  they  sleep! 

Eagles  and  falcons  of  Armenia, 

And  cranes,  her  summer  guests  from  age  to  age, 
Over  this  land  keep  watch,  and  let  the  house 

Of  the  Armenians  be  your  heritage! 

Perch  on  the  ashes;  in  the  ruins  old, 

Armenian  birds,  make  ye  your  nests,  your  home, 
And  let  the  flitting  swallow  come  and  go, 

Until  for  the  Armenians  spring  shall  come  I 


f? 


THE  WAVES  ON  THE  SHORE.  255 


THE  WAVES  ON  THE  SHORE. 

Bedros  Adamian,  a  famous  Armenian  actor,  was  born 
in  1849,  and  died  in  1891.  He  wrote  many  poems  and 
translations. 

HE  day  is  bright  June  weather, 
The  cool  nor  h  wind  blows  free; 
Why  swells  thy  breast,  old  ocean? 
Hast  thou  good  news  for  me? 
Thy  billows,  coming,  coming, 
Leap  high,  then  sink  away, 
And  on  the  shore  forever 
Scatter  their  foaming  spray. 

O  billows,  ocean  billows, 

These  rocks  and  sands  that  fret! 
Bring  tidings  of  the  dear  ones 

My  heart  can  ne'er  forget ! 
Coming  and  ever  coming, 

And  breaking  o'er  and  o'er, 
Bring  some  glad  news  to  cheer  me, 

A  pilgrim  on  this  shore. 

Consumed  by  mournful  yearning, 

Far  distant  from  my  sight, 
E'en  now  my  dearest  suffers. 

She  sorrows  day  and  night. 


2S6  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Her  tears  are  ever  flowing, 
Her  sad  heart  full  of  care; 

O  billows  of  the  ocean, 
To  her  my  greeting  bear ! 

Open,  ye  waves,  and  swallow 

The  salt  tears  from  mine  eyes, 
And  bury  in  your  bosom 

My  grief,  my  bitter  sighs! 
0  billows,  now  receding 

Back  toward  the  ocean  blue, 
Receive  me  as  your  comrade 

And  let  me  go  with  you ! 

Take  me,  O  waves,  and  cast  me 

Like  wreckage  at  their  feet, 
A  witness  to  the  love  and  grief 

That  bid  my  sad  heart  beat ! 
O  billows,  ocean  billows. 

Waves  of  the  great  salt  sea, 
Come,  bear  me  to  my  dear  ones; 

Your  comrade  I  will  be! 


THE  DYING  POET.  257 


THE  DYING  POET. 

BY  TIGRANE  YERGATE. 

JHY  should  not  I,  like  the    great   poet,  wear 
Laurels  upon  my  hair? 
And  why  around  my  heart,  for  my  relief, 
Should  they  not  ring,  those  songs  deep  sorrows  sing, 
Which  from  the  heart  like  some  dark  essence  spring. 
Making  the  mourning  great  as  is  the  grief? 

When  fate  oppresses  me  and  lays  me  low. 
Why  should  I  yield  to  woe, 

Nor  lift  my  brow  with  curses  on  my  breath? 
Grief  can  like  wine  intoxicate,  in  truth. 
And  grief  can  sing  your  glory  and  your  youth, 

Then  lay  you  low  in  death ! 

What  matter  that  at  twenty  years  you  die 
If  fame  immortal  shall  your  memory  crown. 
And  o'er  your  bier  the  Angel  of  Renown 

Exalt  you  to  the  sky? 

Would  you,  a  frail  old  man,  drag  out  your  days 

Amid  the  foolish  throng. 
And  let  them  mock  you  as  your  life  decays. 

While  for  your  goods  they  long? 


2s8  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Come,  dream  no  longer!    Take  your  harp  and  sing. 

When  on  our  lakes  a  bird  falls  nigh  to  death, 
Far  rings  his  voice,  more  touching  is  his  note; 

The  tall  reeds  shiver  with  a  sighing  breath. 

He  spreads  his  wings  in  a  last  flight,  and  looks 
At  the  far  heights — his  song  with  sorrow  rife — 

And  then  falls,  shattered  at  his  high  cliff's  foot. 
Naught  has  he  carried  with  him  out  of  life; 

Yet  a  vague  memory  of  boundless  grief 

Shall  linger  long  upon  the  shore,  the  waves, 

Like  magic  sweetness  of  a  broken  lute. 
Or  sound  of  teardrops  falling  upon  graves. 

Sing,  poet,  sing  to-day  your  latest  hymn! 

In  your  endeavor.  Glory  smiles  on  you. 
Poet,  remember,  to  the  world  you  speak, 

And  you  in  dying  shall  be  born  anewl 


VS 


THE  BOUQUET.  259 


THE  BOUQUET. 

BY  KHORENE  M.  ANTREASSIAN. 

WILIGHT'S  last  ray  is  fading  from  the  world; 
Hushed  are  the  varied  sounds  of  grief  and 
mirth; 
And,  like  a  jealous  consort,  exiled  Night 
Is  now  returning  to  embrace  the  earth. 


Sitting  beside  the  open  window  here. 

Mine  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  sweet  bouquet 

Whose  myriad  petals  silently  repose, 

Leaning  fair  head  to  head,  in  loving  way.         • 

Thou  art  not  mine,  thou  beautiful  bouquet, 
That  seemest  mystic  sentiments  to  teach; 

Unknown  to  me  the  hand  that  gathered  here 

These  flowers,  which  once  were  strangers  each  to  each. 

Yet  over  me  a  nameless  sadness  steals. 

As,  dreaming  silently,  I  gaze  on  thee; 
And  in  my  stormy  heart  old  thoughts  awake, 

And  many  a  sweet,  soul-moving  memory. 

Thou  hast  a  secret  that  I  cannot  pierce. 

Perchance  an  ardent  message  from  some  heart 
Thou  hidest  deep  among  thy  petals  fair; 

Interpreter  of  silent  thoughts  thou  art. 


26o  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

With  thy  rich  hues,  so  stainless  and  so  bright, 
Thou  stirrest  my  sad  soul  victoriously. 

Full  many  a  long  and  dreary  year  has  passed 
Since  any  friend  bestowed  a  flower  on  me. 

Not  for  this  only,  on  this  foreign  shore, 

Thou  movest  me  with  memories  of  the  past; 

Thou  dost  evoke  a  question  from  my  heart — 
A  question  sorrowful,  profound  and  vast. 

These  flowers  of  many  hues  bloomed  far  apart, 
And  each  unknown  to  each,  until  this  day; 

Yet  with  what  ease  they  here  unite  to  form 
A  lovely  and  harmonious  bouquet! 

A  hand,  a  gentle  hand,  collected  them. 

And  now  without  complaint,  without  a  care, 

They  wait  their  fate  together,  lip  to  lip, 

Till  the  last  sleep  shall  overtake  them  there. 

Ah,  why  from  this  world's  garden  great  and  wide. 
When  human  flowers  together  meet  and  stay — 

Flowers  differing  in  fragrance,  form  and  hue — 
Seldom  can  they  unite  in  a  bouquet? 


efi 


UNHAPPY  DAYS.  261 


UNHAPPY  DAYS. 

BY  DJIVAN. 


HE  mournful  and  unhappy  days,  like  winter, 
come  and  go. 
We  should  not  be  discouraged,  they  will  end, 
they  come  and  go. 
Our  bitter  griefs  and  sorrows  do  not  tarry  with  us  long; 
Like  customers  arrayed  in  line,  they  come,  and  then 
they  go. 

Over  the  heads  of  nations  persecutions,  troubles,  woes. 
Pass,  like  the  caravan  along  the  road;  they  come  and 
go. 

The  world  is  like  a  garden,  and  men  are  like  the  flowers; 
How  many  roses,  violets  and  balsams  come  and  go! 

Let  not  the  strong  then  boast  themselves,  nor  let  the 
weak  be  sad. 
For  divers  persons  of  all  kinds  pass  on,  they  come  and 

go- 
Fearless  and  unafraid  the  sun  sends  forth  his  beaming 
light; 
The  dark  clouds  toward  the  house  of  prayer  float 
past,  they  come  and  go. 


262  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Earth  to  her  well-taught  son  belongs,  with  motherly 
caress, 
But  the  unlettered  races  like  nomads  come  and  go. 
Djivan,  a  guest-room  is  the  world,  the  nations  are  the 
guests; 
Such  is  the  law  of  nature ;  they  pass — they  come  and 
go. 


THE  PRISONER  TO  THE  SWALLOW.  263 


THE  PRISONER  TO  THE  SWALLOW. 

STRAYED  and  wandering  swallow,  little  bird, 

How  sadly  by  my  prison  dost  thou  sing! 
Dost  thou  lament  because  thy  lovely  mate 
Has  left  thee,  and  naught  else  can  comfort 
bring? 

Grieve,  then,  like  me!     Yet  thou  art  fortunate, 
Thrice  fortunate,  for  thou  canst  fly  afar, 

Flit  through  the  valleys  and  across  the  hills 
On  thy  swift  wings,  unstayed  by  bolt  or  bar. 

But  here  the  sun  itself  with  pallid  ray 

To  my  dark  prison  cannot  penetrate; 
No  gentle  breeze  blows  here  to  bear  my  voice 

Unto  my  dear  ones,  telling  of  my  fate. 

At  least  thou  goest  to  find  my  well  beloved. 

Oh,  swiftly  dart!     But  then  return  once  more 
Near  me,  the  wretched  one,  and  tarry  here, 

O  swallow,  tarry  till  this  night  be  o'er. 

Stay  here  to-night  and  witness  my  sad  death. 
And,  twittering  o'er  my  grave  with  dew-drops  wet, 

Do  thou,  at  least,  O  bird,  remember  me — • 
Remember  me,  and  mourn,  and  ne'er  forget! 


264  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


HOMESICKNESS. 

WAS  a  quince-bush  growing  on  a  rock. 

A  rocky  cliff  that  rose  above  the  dell; 
They  have  uprooted  and  transplanted  me 

Unto  a  stranger's  orchard,  there  to  dwell; 

And  in  this  orchard  they  have  watered  me 
With  sugar-water,  that  full  sweetly  flows. 

O  brothers,  bear  me  back  to  my  own  soil. 
And  water  me  with  water  of  the  snows! 


"^ 


THE  PRISONER'S  DREAM.  265 


THE  PRISONER'S  DREAM. 


AM  a  bird,  a  small  wild  bird, 

In  freedom  wont  to  dwell; 
But  men  have  caught  and  caged  me  up 

Within  this  narrow  cell. 


From  my  companions  parted  now, 
My  heart  is  sad  and  sore 

Because  I  mingle  with  the  flock 
No  more,  alas!  no  more. 

If  they  should  bring  to  sing  to  me, 
Here  where  I  pine  apart. 

The  nightingale  and  turtledove, 
It  would  not  cheer  my  heart ; 

Nor  if  they  brought  me  as  a  gift 

A  thousand  feathers  fair 
Of  every  hue,  nor  richest  wine. 

Nor  candies  sweet  and  rare; 

Nor  if  they  gave  me  power  to  sway 
Vast  kingdoms  at  my  word, 

Or  made  me  of  a  myriad  men 
The  master  and  the  lord; 


266  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

Or  gave  me  servants  in  a  crowd, 
And  countless  horsemen  bold, 

Or  built  for  me  a  palace  fair, 
Adorned  with  gems  and  gold. 

But  could  I  from  this  cell  escape 
In  which  my  life  they  lock. 

And  fly  away,  and  soar  toward  heaven, 
And  see  again  my  flock, 

And  mingle  with  it,  sporting  wild, 
Singing  with  gladsome  voice, 

My  heart,  that  aches  with  loneliness, 
Would  'mid  the  flock  rejoice. 


THE  MOTHER  IS  LIKE  BREAD. 


267 


THE   MOTHER  IS  LIKE   BREAD. 


HE  mother  is  like  warm  bread;  he  who  eats  of  it 

feels  satisfied. 
The  father  is  like  pure  wine;  he  who  drinks  of  it 
feels  intoxicated. 
The  brother  is  like  the  sun,  which  lights  up  the  moun- 
tains and  the  valleys. 


268  ARMENIAN  POl^MS. 


PARTING  SONG. 

Sung  as  the  bride  leaves  her  home. 
The  Chorus: 

J  HE  evening  wind  has  risen, 
The  chief  men  have  gathered. 
May  I  be  a  sacrifice  for  thy  soul  which  goes 
into  exile! 
The  strings  of  the  purse  have  been  unloosed, 
The  daughter  has  been  parted  from  her  mother. 
The  avalanche  is  coming  down  from  Dilif, 
It  is  carrying  away  our  little  moon! 
The  foot  is  in  the  stirrup; 
The  mother  weeps  to  see  her  go. 

The  Bride: 

I  do  not  want  to  go,  mamma!  I  do  not  want  to  go! 

They  are  taking  me  by  force! 

Do  thou,  little  mother,  wish  that  it  may  bring  me  good 

luck, 
The  milk  that  thou  hast  given  me,  that  it  may  bring 

me  good  fortune! 
Do  thou,  little  father,  wish  that  it  may  bring  me  good 

luck, 
The  bread  that  thou  hast  earned  for  me,  that  it  may 

bring  me  good  fortune! 
Do  not  groan,  threshold  of  my  home; 


PARTING  SONG.  269 

It  is  for  me  to  groan. 
Do  not  creep,  O  sun! 
It  is  for  me  to  creep. 
Do  not  shake,  little  tree! 
It  is  for  me  to  shake. 
Do  not  fall,  O  leaf! 
It  is  for  me  to  fall. 
Do  not  shine,  O  star! 
It  is  for  me  to  shine. 
Do  not  rise,  O  moon! 
It  is  for  me  to  rise. 
Do  not  weep,  mamma! 
It  is  for  me  to  weep- 


270  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  WANDERER. 

H,  heavy  hearted  is  the  wanderer 

In  foreign  lands,  who  hath  his  country  left! 
In  gazing  on  the  fever  of  his  heart, 
Even  the  rocks  with  sorrow  would  be  cleft. 


When  you  on  any  man  would  call  a  curse, 
Say,  "Be  a  wanderer  from  your  native  land! 

And  may  your  pillow  be  the  mountain  side, 
And  may  you  sleep  at  night  upon  the  sand! 

"And,  when  you  think  upon  your  fatherland, 
May  you  from  head  to  foot  be  full  of  pains!" 

My  heart  is  a  cracked  vase;  in  vain  I  pour 
Water  therein;  unfilled  it  still  remains. 

Each  bird  of  heaven  hath  its  companion  found, 

I  am  alone  and  solitary  still; 
Each  stone  is  fixed  and  quiet  in  its  place; 

I  roll  forevermore  by  vale  and  hill. 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT.  271 


THE  MOTHER'S   LAMENT. 

LOOK  and  weep,  I,  this  child's  mother.    I  say, 
"Alas  for  me!    What  will  become  of  me  now, 
unhappy  that  I  am?     I  have  seen  my  golden 
son  dead!" 

The  fragrant  rose  has  been  snatched  from  my  bosom; 
my  soul  faints  within  me!  My  beautiful  golden  dove 
has  been  made  to  take  flight  from  my  arms;  my  heart 
is  broken! 

My  pretty,  softly-cooing  turtle-dove,  death's  falcon 
has  struck  it,  and  has  wounded  me.  My  sweet-voiced 
little  lark  has  been  taken  from  me  and  carried  away 
to  heaven. 

My  verdant  pomegranate  tree,  all  covered  with 
flowers,  the  hailstorm  has  destroyed  it  before  mine 
eyes — the  reddening  apple  upon  my  tree,  the  fragrant 
fruit  among  my  leaves! 

My  beautiful  almond  tree  all  in  blossom,  they  have 
shaken  it  and  left  it  without  a  fruit;  they  have  seized 
it  and  thrown  it  to  earth,  and  trampled  the  ground 
where  it  lies. 

Oh,  what  will  become  of  me,  unhappy  that  I  am! 
Many  griefs  have  come  upon  me.  At  least,  O  God, 
receive  the  soul  of  my  child,  and  let  it  rest  in  thy 
bright  heaven! 


272 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  DEAD  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


AM  going  to  turn  into  an  eagle.  I  shall  go  and 
perch  before  thy  window;  I  shall  lament  so 
bitterly  that  sleep  will  flee  away  from  thee 

forever.     Anyone   else   may   sleep;   but   thou   and   I, 

henceforth,  shall  know  sleep  no  more! 


VS 


THE  SISTER'S  LAMENT.  273 


THE  SISTER'S  LAMENT. 


HE  brother  is  the  artery  of  his  sister's  heart. 
He  has. only  to  speak  one  gentle  word  to  make 
her  happy. 

Come,  my  brother!     Come,  water  of  my  fountain! 
I  am  athirst  for  thee;  whither  hast  thou  gone? 

Thou  hast  left  me  in  the  shadow;  make  light  spring 
forth! 

The  wall  of  my  love  has  crumbled;  come  and  rebuild 
it! 


O/, 


274  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


i 


SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANT'S  WIFE. 

HE  road  on  which  my  absent  husband  passes,  I 
wish  I  were  that  road!  The  water-course  where 
he  goes  to  drink,  I  wish  I  were  the  spring  of  that 
water!  He  would  have  stooped  to  drink  of  that  water, 
and  the  wish  of  my  heart  would  be  fulfilled. 

In  the  city  where  he  alights,  I  wish  I  were  the  inn- 
keeper, so  that  he  would  come  and  alight  at  my  inn! 
I  would  take  him  to  my  best  room,  I  would  twine  my 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  talk  with  him  sweetly. 


^ 


THE  ORPHAN'S  LULLABY.  275 


THE   ORPHAN'S  LULLABY. 


AHAG  is  on  the  mountain, 

Thy  father  'neath  the  stone; 
The  reeds  thy  cradle  are,  thy  roof 
The  arching  rock  alone. 


Oh,  may  the  south  wind  rock  thee, 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky, 
And  may  the  little  stars  of  heaven 

Sing  thee  a  lullaby! 

And  may  the  wild  ewe  nourish  thee 

Upon  her  milk  so  white. 
That  thou  may'st  bud,  that  thou  may'st  bloom. 

And  grow  in  strength  and  height ! 

Oh,  hushaby,  my  darling! 

Lilies  on  thy  pink  face! 
Sleep,  child,  and  may  the  wind  that  sings 

Blow  o'er  thy  cradle-place! 

Oh,  may  the  wild  ewe  suckle  thee. 

And  be  thy  nurse  the  sun! 
May  the  moon  sing  thy  cradle  song! 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  little  one! 


276  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


A  KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR. 


HE  wind  that  from  the  lofty  summits  blew 
Knocked   at   the  door;    the  young  wife  rose 
and  ran, 

In  haste,  with  eager  steps  and  beating  heart, 
To  fling  it  wide.      Alas,  'twas  not  her  man! 

With  breaking  heart  she  to  the  hearth  returned. 

Her  husband's  mother  spoke,  to  comfort  fain: 
"Daughter-in-law,  my  little  daughter,  say. 

Why  dost  thou  weep?    Tell  me,  where  lies  thy  pain?" 

"Mother,  my  little  mother!     Everywhere 

I  am  in  pain,  so  for  thy  son  I  yearn." 
"Weep  not,  my  little  daughter!     To  my  son 

A  letter  I  will  write,  and  say,  'Return'  !  " 

"If  to  thy  son  thou  writest  to  return, 

May'st  thou  enjoy  the  light  of  God's  bright  throne! 
But,  if  thou  dost  not  write  him  to  return, 

Receive  my  curse,  and  turn  into  a  stone!" 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GOAT.  277 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GOAT. 

HE  goat  went  to  play  on  the  ice.     She  fell  and 
broke  her  foot.     She  said:  "Ice,  then  you  are 
very  strong?" 
''If  I  were  very  strong,"  said  the  ice,  "the  sun  would 

not  have  thawed  me." 

She  went  to  the  sun  and  said,  "Sun,  then  you  are 

very  strong?" 

"If  I  were  very  strong,"  said  the  sun,  "the  cloud 

would  not  have  covered  me." 

"Cloud,"  said  she,  "then  you  are  very  strong?" 
"If  I  were  very  strong,  the  wind  would  not  have 

scattered  me." 

"Wind,"  she  said,  "then  you  are  very  strong?" 
"If  I  were  very  strong,  I  should  not  have  been  able 

to  glide  through  the  chink  in  the  wall." 

"Chink  in  the  wall,  then  you  are  very  strong?" 
"If  I  were  very  strong,  the  mouse  would  not  have 

reigned  over  me." 

"Mouse,"  she  said,  "then  you  are  very  strong?" 
"If  I  were  very  strong,  the  cat   would  not  have 

caught  me." 

"Cat,"  said  she,  "then  you  are  very  strong?" 

The  cat  said,  shaking  his  tail,  "I  am  strong,  I  am 

strong,  I  am  the  chief  of  the  strong!     I  am  the  fur  of 

great  lords;  I  am  the  head-dress  of  great  ladies.     In 

the  village  in  summer,  and  by  the  fireside  in  winter,  I 

sleep  a  sweet  sleep.     If  anyone  says,  'Scat!'  I  scud 

away,  I  go  and  sit  in  the  top  of  a  tree." 


278  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


THE  DARK  DAMSELS. 

SPRING  on  Mount  Menzour  flows  out  under 
the  long-haired  willow  tree.  Two  beautiful 
dark  damsels  have  come  to  fill  their  pitchers. 
Two  young  men,  as  strong  as  athletes,  are  passing 
by  on  horseback. 

"Young  girl,  by  the  youth  of  thy  brother,  give  me  a 
drop  of  water  from  thy  pitcher!" 

"The  water  in  my  pitcher  is  not  cold,  it  is  hot.  More 
men  than  one  have  died  because  they  loved  us." 

"  Pour  me  a  drop,  let  me  drink,  and  let  me  die  also, 
and  let  it  be  with  me  as  if  my  mother  had  never 
given  me  birth!" 


PLAYMATES.  279 


PLAYMATES. 

BABY,  in  your  little  bed 
How  beautiful  you  are! 
Whom  shall  I  bring  to  play  with  you, 
Searching  both  near  and  far? 
For  playmates  I  will  bring  to  you 
The  moon  and  morning  star! 


28o 


ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


CRADLE  SONG. 


]HE  nightingale,  for  love  of  the  rose,  cannot 
sleep  the  whole  night  long.  He  cannot  sleep 
during  the  night,  nor  during  the  day  until  the 
evening.  Go  to  bed,  and  sleep  sweetly,  until  the 
morning  light  comes,  until  the  good  light  comes!  Then 
my  nightingale  will  wake  again,  my  nightingale  will 
wake  again,  with  eyes  half  open  and  half  closed. 


Sr 


LULLABY. 


381 


LULLABY. 

SING  the  cradle  song  so  that  when  you  hear  it, 
you  may  lie  down  and  fall  sweetly  asleep.  Go 
to  sleep,  my  chUd,  and  grow — grow  and  be- 
come a  great  man;  spread  out  and  become  a  village! 
In  the  village  where  there  is  no  great  man,  become  the 
great  man  of  that  village.  Become  a  great  forest,  burying 
your  roots  deep  in  the  earth;  plunge  your  roots  down 
into  the  very  depths  of  the  earth,  and  may  your  trees 
with  their  branches  cast  their  shadow  everywhere! 


^ 


282  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 


HUSHABY. 


USHABY,  hushaby!  The  does  have  come. 
They  have  come,  the  does,  they  have  come 
down  from  the  mountains.  They  have 
brought  thee  sweet  sleep,  they  have  poured  it  into 
thine  eyes,  as  large  as  seas;  they  have  put  thee  to 
sleep  with  a  sweet  slumber;  they  have  satisfied  thee 
with  their  sweet  milk. 

Hushaby,  hushaby!  May  the  Lord  give  thee  sleep! 
May  Mother  Mary  grant  thee  peace;  may  Mother 
Mary  grant  thee  peace  so  that  thou  mayest  lie  down 
and  fall  softly  asleep !  Of  Mother  Mary  we  will  make 
thy  mother,  and  of  her  only  son  thy  protector.  I  wUl 
go  to  church  to  beg  the  saints  to  p  ay  for  us.  Of  the 
holy  crucifix  I  will  make  a  brother,  that  it  may  keep 
its  arms  stretched  out  over  us  forever. 


SAD  SNOW.  283 


SAD   SNOW. 

HAT  art  thou,  O  thou  light  and  fleecy  snow? 

A  flower,  a  coverlet,  a  winding  sheet? 
That  o'er  Armenia's  plains  thou  spreadest  far, 
Unfolded  white  and  wide,  the  sky  to  meet? 

Or  art  thou  a  white  dove  from  Paradise, 
That,  when  it  saw  the  Holy  Virgin  there. 

Shook  down  the  snowy  feathers  from  its  wings 
To  form  a  scarf  upon  her  shoulders  bare? 

Or  cam'st  thou  from  the  angels  up  above, 

Who  sometimes  seek  their  future  fate  to  know, 

Playing  on  high,  "To  die  or  not  to  die?" 
With  roses  white,  whose  petals  drift  below? 

Or  art  thou  downy  cotton  or  soft  wool 
That  the  north  wind  upon  Armenia  sheds, 

A  pure  and  restful  pillow  to  become 
Beneath  our  martyred  sires'  and  brothers'  heads? 

If  'tis  a  feathery  scarf  thou  art,  0  snow! 

Be  swaddling  bands  and  cradle  soft  as  silk 
To  children  small  who  perished  at  their  birth, 

Ere  they  had  tasted  of  their  mothers'  milk! 

^  The  Armenians  play,    "To  die  or  not  to  die?"  with  flower 
petals  as  we  play,  ''  He  loves  me,  he  loves  me  not." 


284  ARMENIAN  POEMS. 

If  thou  art  rose-leaves,  pure  and  stainless  snow, 
Oh,  then  bud  forth,  a  fresh  and  dewy  wreath, 

Upon  the  lowly  and  forsaken  mounds 

Where  slim  Armenian  maidens  sleep  in  death! 

O  mournful  snow,  fall  thick  and  heavily 

And  cover  mount  and  valley,  rock  and  plain ! 

Cover  the  graves,  that  through  the  days  to  come 
Unbroken  their  sweet  slumber  may  remain! 

Those  martyrs  for  their  nation  and  the  cross, 
Now  and  forever,  silent  and  alone. 

In  hope  of  immortality  in  heaven, 

Repose  in  death,  with  no  memorial  stone. 


f>T» 


APPENDIX. 


THE   ARMENIAN   WOMEN. 

I  HE  following  extract  from  an  Armenian  classic 
will  give  some  idea  of  the  poetical  prose  of 
the  Armenians.  Eghiche,  an  Armenian 
bishop  and  historian  of  the  fifth  century,  writing  nine 
hundred  years  before  Chaucer,  gives  a  graphic  account 
of  the  Persian  invasion  of  451  a.  d.,  of  which  he  Avas 
an  eye-witness.  In  the  eighth  chapter  he  speaks  as 
follows  of  the  fortitude  shown  b}  the  Armenian  women 
after  the  princes  and  nobles  had  been  killed  or  canied 
away  into  captivity,  and  the  country  reduced  almost  to 
a  desert :  — 

"  But  I  cannot  enumerate  all  the  wives  of  the  heroes, 
both  of  those  who  were  in  fetters,  and  those  wlio  had 
fallen  in  battle;  for  there  are  more  whom  I  do  not  know 
than  those  whom  I  know.  I  know  by  name  and  by  sight 
about  five  hundred ;  not  onlv  those  who  were  the  highest 
in  rank,  but  many  of  low  degree.  All  of  tliem  together, 
being  kindled  by  a  holy  emulation,  put  on  the  same  virtue 
of  fidelity.  They  forgot  even  the  name  of  the  luxury 
belonging  to  their  hereditary  freedom,  and  becanie  like 
men  who  have ,  suffered  from  the  beginning  after  the- 
nxanner  of  peasants,  and  who  have  passed  their  lives   in 


286  APPENDIX, 

this  world  amid  hardships.  The  elder  ones  took  upon 
themselves  the  greater  endurance.  They  were  comforted 
by  the  invisible  force  of  the  eternal  hope,  and  accepted 
the  heavy  burden  of  bodily  pain.  For  although  each  of 
them  had  had  hereditary  servants,  there  was  now  nothing 
to  distinguish  between  mistress  and  maid.  All  wore  the 
same  dress,  and  all  alike  slept  on  the  ground.  Neither 
one  made  the  other's  bed.  There  was  no  distinction 
even  in  their  food.  All  the  mattresses  were  of  the  same 
dark  color,  and  all  the  pillows  were  alike  black.  They 
had  no  special  makers  of  spiced  dishes,  nor  bread-makers 
set  apart  for  service  at  table,  but  everything  was  in  com- 
mon. None  poured  water  on  the  other's  hands,  neither 
did  the  younger  ones  offer  towels  to  the  elder.  The  deli- 
cate women  had  no  soap,  nor  was  oil  offered  to  them  for 
rejoicing.  No  costly  platter  was  set  before  them,  neither 
were  cup-holders  found  at  their  festivals.  For  none  of 
them  did  an  usher  stand  at  the  door,  neither  were  the 
nobles  called  by  them. 

"  The  bridal  chambers  of  the  young  brides  became 
dusty  and  dim,  and  spiders'  webs  were  spun  in  their 
sleeping-rooms.  The  high  seats  of  their  palaces  were 
destroyed,  and  the  vessels  of  their  table  service  were  in 
disorder.  Their  palaces  fell,  and  the  fortresses  of  their 
refuge  crashed  down  in  ruin;  their  flower-gardens  dried 
up  and  withered,  and  the  wine-bearing  vines  of  their 
vineyards  were  torn  up.  With  their  eyes  they  saw  the 
spoiling  of  their  goods,  and  with  their  ears  they  heard  of 
the  sufferings  of  their  dear  ones.  Their  treasures  were 
confiscated,  and  nothing  at  all  was  left  of  the  ornaments 
of  their  faces. 

"  The  delicately  reared  women  of  the  land  of  Armenia, 
who  had  been  brought  up  in  luxury  and  petted  in  costly 
clothing  and  on  soft  couches,  went  untiringly  to  the 
houses  of  prayer,  on  foot  and  bare-footed,  asking  with 
vows  that  they  might  be  enabled  to  endure  their  great 


APPENDIX.  287 

affliction.  Those  who  from  childhood  had  been  reared 
on  oxen's  brains  and  the  choicest  pieces  of  deer,  now 
were  glad  to  eat  vegetable  food,  like  savages.  The  skins 
of  their  bodies,  blackening,  became  dark,  because  by  day 
they  were  sun-burned,  and  all  night  they  slept  on  the 
ground.  The  everlasting  psalms  were  the  murmurs  of 
their  lips,  and  their  complete  comfort  was  in  the  reading 
of  the  prophets. 

*'  The  women  paired  off  two  by  two,  like  the  animals, 
as  equal  and  harmonious,  drawing  straight  the  furrow  of 
the  kingdom,  that  they  might  reach  the  harbor  of  peace 
without  fail.  They  forgot  their  womanly  weakness,  and 
became  brave  males  in  the  spiritual  warfare.  Doing 
battle,  they  fought  against  the  cardinal  sins  ;  they  pulled 
up  and  threw  away  their  deadly  roots.  With  simplicity 
they  conquered  guilefulness,  and  with  sacred  love  they 
washed  away  the  dark  coloring  of  envy.  They  cut  off 
the  roots  of  avarice,  and  the  death-bearing  fruits  of  its 
branches  dried  up.  With  humility  they  trampled  upon 
arrogance,  and  with  the  same  humihty  they  reached  the 
heavenly  height.  With  prayers  they  opened  the  closed 
doors  of  heaven,  and  with  holy  petitions  caused  the 
angels  of  redemption  to  descend.  They  heard  the  good 
tidings  from  afar,  and  glorified  God  in  the  highest. 

"The  widows  among  them  became  again  as  virtuous 
brides,  and  put  away  from  them  the  reproach  of  widow- 
hood. And  the  wives  of  those  who  were  in  fetters 
willingly  restrained  the  physical  appetites,  and  became 
partakers  of  the  sufferings  of  the  imprisoned  saints.  In 
their  lives  they  resembled  the  brave  martyrs  in  their 
deaths,  and  from  a  distance  they  became  teachers  of 
consolation  to  the  prisoners.  With  their  fingers  they 
worked  and  were  fed,  and  the  pensions  granted  them  by 
the  court  they  sent  year  by  year  to  their  husbands,  for 
their  comfort.  They  became  like  the  bloodless  cricket, 
which  lives  without  food,  by  the  sweetness  of  its  song. 


288  APPENDIX 

"  The  snows  of  many  winters  melted,  the  spring  ar- 
rived, the  new  birds  came,  life-loving  men  saw  and  re- 
joiced ;  but  they  could  never  see  those  for  whom  they 
longed.  The  spring  flowers  reminded  them  of  their 
loving  husbands,  and  their  eyes  longed  in  vain  to  see  the 
desirable  beauty  of  their  faces.  Their  hounds  died,  and 
their  hunting  excursions  were  ended.  No  yearly  festi- 
vals brougiit  them  from  afar.  The  women  looked  on 
their  dining-places  and  wept;  and  they  remembered  them 
in  all  their  assemblies.  Many  monuments  were  raided  to 
them,  and  the  names  of  each  inscribed  thereon. 

"  But  while  thus  upon  all  sides  their  minds  were  storm- 
beaten,  the  women  did  not  retreat,  nor  weaken  in  heavenly 
virtue.  To  outsiders  they  appeared  mourning  and  sor- 
rowful widows,  but  in  their  own  souls  they  were  adorned 
with  heavenly  love.  They  ceased  to  ask  any  one  who 
had  come  from  a  distance,  "  When  shall  we  see  our  dear 
ones  ?  "  The  de.sires  of  their  prayers  to  God  were  only 
that  they  might  finish  their  course  with  courage,  filled 
with  heavenly  love,  even  as  they  had  begun. 

"  And  may  we  and  they  inherit  togetlier  the  Mother 
City  of  goodness  (the  heavenly  Jerusalem)  and  those 
things  which  are  promised  to  the  beloved  of  God  in 
Christ  Jesus  Our  Lord  !     Amen." 


APPENDIX.  289 


THE   ARMENIAN   CHURCH. 

HE  Armenian  Church  may  be  roughly  described 
as  about  half  way  between  the  Greek  Church 
and  High  Church  Episcopalianism.  Its  head, 
called  the  Catholicos,  has  his  see  in  a  very  ancient 
monastery  at  Etchmiadzin  in  Russian  Armenia,  near 
the  foot  of  Mt.  Ararat. 

Under  the  preaching  of  missionaries,  a  part  of  the 
Armenians  have  become  Protestants,  and  another  part 
Roman  Catholics ;  but  the  great  bulk  of  them  stUl 
adhere  to  their  ancient  national  church. 

The  Armenians  are  eager  for  education,  and  have 
flocked  in  large  numbers  to  the  many  schools  and 
colleges  that  have  been  maintained  in  Asia  Minor 
for  years  by  the  American  Board  of  Foreign  Missions, 
until  the  massacres  and  deportations  of  191 5-16  de- 
prived them  of  almost  all  their  pupils. 

Owing  to  centuries  of  persecution,  Armenian  colonies 
are  scattered  all  over  the  world.  There  are  said  to  be 
fully  250,000  Armenians  in  the  United  States,  and  some 
estimates  place  the  number  much  higher. 


290  APPENDIX. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

FULL  bibliography  of  the  Armenian  troubles, 
compiled  by  Professor  W.  W.  Rockwell,  may 
be  had  from  the  American  Committee  for 

Armenian    Relief,    70    Fifth    Avenue,    New    York. 

Price,  10  cents. 

Persons  who  wish  to  look  into  Armenian   history, 

literature,  folklore,  etc.,  will  find  the  following  works 

of  interest: 

"Armenia:  Travels  and  Studies,"  by  Henry  F.  B.  Lynch, 
London,  Longmans,  Green  Co.,  1901;  "Armenia  and 
Europe,"  by  J.  Lepsius,  London,  1897;  "Armenia  and  the 
Armenians,"'  by  E.  J.  Dillon  (a  section  in  his  "  Russian  Char- 
acteristics");  "Historical  Sketches  of  Armenia  and  the  Ar- 
menians in  Ancient  and  JNIodern  Time,"  with  special  reference 
to  the  present  crisis,  by  an  old  Indian,  London,  1896;  "Turk- 
ish Armenia  and  Eastern  Asia  Minor,"  by  H.  F.  Tozer, 
London,  1881;  "Twenty  Years  of  the  Armenian  Question," 
by  James  Bryce  in  his  "  Transcaucasia  and  Ararat,"  pages 
446-525,  1890;  "Travel  and  Politics  in  Armenia,"  with  an 
Introduction  by  Viscount  Bryce,  and  a  contribution  on  Ar- 
menian history  and  culture  by  Aram  Rafli,  by  Noel  Edward 
Buxton  and  Harold  Jocelyn  Bu.xlon,  London,  Smith,  Elder 
&  Co.,  1914;  "Through  Armenia  on  Horseback,"  by  George 
H.  Hepworth,  New  York,  Dulton  &  Co.,  1898;  "Travels  in 
Armenia,"  by  A.  H.  Layard,  London,  1853;  "The  Armenian 
Church — History,  Liturgy,  Doctrines,  and  Ceremonies," 
by  Edward  Francis  Forlcscue,  London,  J.  T.  Hayes,  1872; 
"The  Rule  of  the  Turk,"  by  Frederick  D.  Greene,  New  York, 
Putnam,  1896;  "Turkey  and  the  Armenian  Alroci  Lies,"  by  K.^L 
Bliss;  "Travels  and  Researches  in  ^Mesopotamia  and  .\rnieniii, " 
by  W.  F.  Ainsworlh,  London,  1842;  ".Armenia  and  the  Arme- 
nians," by  R.  D.James  Issaverdens,\'onice,  1878;  "Researches 
in  Armenia,"  by  F.  Smith,  Boston,  1833;  "Impres.sions  of 
Turkey  during  Twelve  Years'  Wandering,"  by  \\.  M.  Ram- 
say, New  York,  Putnam,   1897;  "England's   Responsibility 


APPENDIX.  291 

toward  Armenia,"  by  Malcolm  MacCoU,  London,  Longmans, 
1895;  "Armenian  Women,  Their  Folk  Poesy,"  by  L.  M.  J. 
Garnet  in  her  " Women  of  Turkey,"  pages  270-296;  "Arme- 
nians, Kurds  and  Turks,"  by  J.  Creagh;  "  Life  and  Adventures 
in  Trebizond,  Erzerum,  Tabriz,"  by  A.  Vambery,  London, 
1886;  "Armenia  and  the  Campaign  of  1877,"  by  C.  B.  Nor- 
man, London,  1878;  "The  Armenian  Campaign,"  by  C. 
Williams,  London,  1878;  "The  Armenians,  or  the  People  of 
Ararat,"  by  M.  C.  Gabrielian,  Philadelphia,  Allen,  Lane  & 
Scott,  1892;  "The  Leavening  of  the  Levant,"  by  Joseph  K. 
Greene,  Revell  Press,  1916;  "The  Golden  Maiden  and  Other 
Folk  and  Fairy  Tales  Told  in  Armenia,"  by  A.  G.  Seklemian, 
with  Introduction  by  Alice  Stone  Black  well,  Cleveland,  O., 
Helman  Taylor  Co.,  1898;  "Armenian  Mythology,"  com- 
piled by  Zabel  S.  Boyajian,  London,  G.  M.  Dent  &  Sons, 
1916;  "The  Blackest  Page  of  Modern  History,"  by  Herbert 
Adams  Gibbons,  New  York,  Putnam,  1916. 

In  French:  "Contes  Arm^niens,  Traduits  de  I'Armenien 
Moderne,"  by  Frederic  Macler,  Leroux,  Paris,  1905;  "Mek- 
hitaristes  de  Saint  Lazare,  Histoire  d'Armenie,  Litterature 
Armenienne,"  by  Paul  Emile  Le  Vaillant  de  Florival,  Venice, 
Typographic  Armenienne  de  Saint  Lazare;  "L'Armenie  Chre- 
tienne  et  sa  Litterature,"  by  Felix  Neve,  C.  Peters,  Louvain, 
1886;  "L'Armenie;  son  Histoire,  sa  Litterature,  son  Role 
en  L'Orient,  avec  une  Introduction  par  Anatole  France,"  by 
Archag  Tchobanian,  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
— 1897;  "Poemes  Armeniens,  Anciens  et  Modernes,  Precedes 
d'une  Etude  de  Gabriel  Mourey  sur  la  Poesie  et  I'Art  Ar- 
meniens," by  Archag  Tchobanian,  Paris,  Librairie  A.  Charles, 
1902;  "Chants  Populaires  Armeniens,  Preface  de  Paul  Adam," 
by  Archag  Tchobanian,  Paris,  Societe  d'Editions  Litteraires 
et  Artistiques,  1903;  "Petite  ISibliotheque  Armenienne,  Pub- 
liee  sous  la  Direction  de  Frederic  Macler,"  Paris;  "L'Orient 
Inedit, — Legendes  et  Traditions  Armeniennes,"  by  Minas 
Tcheraz,  Paris,  Leroux,  1912;  "Etudes  sur  la  Miniature 
Armenienne,"  by  Seraphin  AbduUah  et  Frederic  Macler, 
Paris,  1909;  "  Au  Milieu  des  IMassacres — Journal  de  la  Femme 
d'un  Consul  de  France  en  Arm^enie,"  by  EmiHe  Carlier, 
Paris,  Juven,  1903. 

In  German:  "Die  Armenische  Literatur,"  by  Franz  Niko- 
laus  Finck,  Berlin,  1906;  "Geschichte  der  Armenischen  Lit- 
eratur," by  Franz  Nikolaus  Finck,  Leipzig,  1909;  "Kirchen 
und  Moscheen  in  Armenian  und  Kurdistan,"  Hinrichs,  Leipzig, 
1913;  71  plates.     Maps.     Plans. 


292  APPENDIX. 


COMMENT  ON  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


The  work  is  admiraCbly  done. — Boston  Post. 

A  valuable  addition  to  our  poet  lore. — Philadelphia  Press. 

Miss  Blackwell  seems  to  have  brought  to  her  work  rare 
intelligence  and  excellent  taste. — Boston  Journal. 

We  are  grateful  for  this  introduction  to  authors  some  of 
whom  have  evidently  high  poetic  powers. — San  Francisco 
Chronicle. 

Contains  many  choice  bits  of  verse,  and  is  ample  evidence 
that  the  spirit  of  poetry  is  the  same  the  world  over,  whether 
in  sunny  Italy,  pastoral  England  or  persecuted  Armenia. — 
New  York  Journal. 

Miss  Blackwell  has  succeeded  in  carrying  over  much  of 
the  native  fire  into  her  translations.  .  .  .  These  verses 
give  us  a  very  high  opinion  of  the  literary  capacity  of  the 
race  which  produced  them. — Congregationalist. 

Miss  Blackwell  has  caught,  we  believe,  the  Armenian 
literary  spirit.  Whatever  these  poems  may  have  been  in  the 
original,  they  are  certainly  gems  in  the  English  dress  in  which 
she  has  clothed  them. — Boston  Advertiser. 

That  a  second  edition  of  the  Armenian  Poems  is  already  in 
press,  although  the  first  has  not  yet  been  out  a  fortnight, 
shows  how  strong  is  the  interest  in  this  graceful  and  forceful 
interpretation  of  the  life  of  an  oppressed  people. — Boston 
Transcript. 

The  translator  has  been  remarkably  successful  in  giving  in 
English  forms  an  extremely  interesting  scries  of  noteworthy 
poems  from  the  literary  stores  of  a  long-suffering  people. — 
Bujjalo  Commercial. 


APPENDIX.  293 

A  most  interesting  product  of  Armenian  poetical  genius. 
It  is  a  real  service  to  let  Americans  and  Englishmen  realize 
that  the  nation  for  which  we  plead  is  a  cultivated  one,  with 
not  only  a  history,  but  a  still  living  and  productive  literary 
power. — Rt.  Hon.  James  Bryce. 

The  poems  cover  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  and  extend 
through  all  the  passions  that  go  to  make  up  man's  life — love, 
hate,  liberty,  religion,  home,  etc.  Miss  Blackwell's  work  has 
been  well  done,  and  she  has  brought  to  it  rare  intelligence,  taste 
and  poetic  ability. — Boston  Times. 

A  collection  of  poems  revealing  unexpected  beauties.  The 
lines  are  full  of  rich  similes,  and  are  pleasantly  melodious,  and 
altogether  the  translator's  venture  into  an  almost  unknown 
literature  has  been  most  successful. — Chicago  Post. 

The  great  sympathy  everywhere  aroused  for  the  Armenians 
will  heighten  the  interest  in  their  poetic  literature,  and  their 
poetry  is,  of  itself,  worth  attention.  Almost  every  note  is 
touched;  of  patriotism,  love,  religion.  The  volume  offers  a 
poetic  study  of  very  curious  interest. — Lillian  Whiting  in 
Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

A  volume  of  Armenian  poems  is  now  issued,  and  it  gives  a 
new  idea  of  the  romantic  nature  of  the  Christian  victims  of 
Turkish  rapacity  and  bigotry.  The  poems  show  an  unusual 
love  of  nature,  and  are  full  of  tender  and  delicate  sentiments. 
These  people  are  not,  as  increasing  evidence  shows,  a  half- 
savage,  ignorant,  immoral  race,  but  a  fine-tempered  and 
intelligent  body  of  men  and  women. — N.  Y.  Commercial 
Advertiser. 

"Beautiful!"  is  the  exclamation  of  a  pleased  reader,  laying 
aside  this  collection  of  poems.  They  breathe  a  gentle  fra- 
grance. The  soul  is  broader  because  of  their  perusal.  They 
speak  with  a  strange  fascination.  New  inspiration  is  gath- 
ered from  these  simple  yet  wonderfully  profound  gems  of 
poetic  literature.  .  .  .  The  work  has  been  well  done,  and  we 
are  delighted  to  place  this  treasure  in  our  library. — Baltimore 
Methodist. 

These  poems  are  truly  Oriental  in  the  fire  of  their  passion 
and  the  splendor  of  their  imagery.  .  .  .  We  can  better 
understand  the  song  of  Solomon  after  reading  these.  A 
tinge  of  sadness  colors  many  of  these  exquisite  poems, 
for   they   have   been   written   in    a  land  desolated   by   fire 


294  APPENDIX. 

and  sword.  But,  beyond  all  else,  they  breathe  a  spirit 
of  the  purest  and  most  exalted  patriotism,  and  are  all  aglow 
with  love  of  truth  and  WhQxty.— Christian  Work. 

The  poems  expressing  the  hopes,  fears,  sorrows,  aspirations 
and  ideals  of  this  people  have  a  doul^le  interest,  that  of  litera- 
ture and  that  of  life.  .  .  .  The  melancholy  earnestness  and 
true  poetic  feeling  found  in  such  verse  will  commend  it  to  a 
wide  and  sympathetic  circle  of  readers,  who  may  learn  from 
this  literary  source,  as  from  nowhere  else,  something  of  the 
deeper-lying  traits  and  tendencies  of  the  Armenian  folk.  And 
the  qualities  that  come  out  in  the  poems  are  such  as  to  quicken 
one's  admiration  and  increase  one's  sympathy. — Hartford 
Courant. 

The  poems  are  interesting  as  revealing ,  to  a  hitherto  un- 
equaled  extent,  the  poetic  genius  and  character  of  this  be- 
trayed and  suffering  people.  It  will  doubtless  surprise  many 
to  find  that  Armenia  has  both  a  classic  literature  and  a  rich 
fund  of  nineteenth-century  poetry;  that  her  poets  have  written 
with  a  vigor  of  thought,  a  delicacy  of  imagination,  and  a 
direct  simplicity  of  expression,  such  as  characterizes  the 
best  poetry  of  any  country;  that  the  verses  are  interesting  in 
themselves,  for  the  same  reasons  that  the  Bosnian  and  Ser- 
vian poetry  is  interesting. — Christian  Register. 

These  poems  reveal  as  by  a  searchlight  the  deepest  quali- 
ties of  the  Armenian  character.  They  show  forth  an  in- 
grained heroism  and  an  ardent  aspiration  worthy  of  the 
martyr  people  of  this  so-called  Christian  century.  No  gener- 
ous man  or  woman  can  read  them  without  instinctively  desir- 
ing to  send  help  to  a  people  capable  of  thoughts  so  lofty  and 
sentiment  so  tender. — Frances  E.  Willard. 

I  think  your  translation  of  the  poems  admirable. — Dr. 
Cyrus  Ilamlin. 

I  have  read  with  much  pleasure  your  translations  of  the 
Armenian  poems,  especially  my  brother's. — Prince  Guyde 
Lusignan. 

General  A.  W.  Greely  wrote  from  Washington,  D.  C:  "I 
spoke  on  this  subject  (the  Armenian  question)  before  the 
Parish  Union  of  .Ml  Souls'  Church.  The  literary  part  of  the 
address  conLsisted  in  reading  your  admirable  translations  of  the 
beautiful  songs,  'Nightingale,'  'Cradle  Song,'  'Mother 
Araxcs,'   etc.,  which  were  very  much  praised.     An  Armenian 


APPENDIX.  29s 

was  most  persistent  in  seeking  for  copies  of  these  songs,  which 
brought  his  country  back  vividly  to  his  mind  and  heart." 

Miss  Alice  Fletcher  wrote  concerning  the  meeting  of  a 
Literary  Society  in  Washington,  D.  C:  "I  read  on  that  oc- 
casion several  of  your  beautiful  translations  of  Armenian 
poems,  and  was  delighted  with  the  interest  and  enthusiasm 
they  evoked.  The  meeting  was  at  the  residence  of  Dr.  Wil- 
liam T.  Harris,  Commissioner  of  Education.  There  were 
many  learned  and  famous  folk  there,  as  the  Literary  Society 
has  in  its  membership  some  of  our  brightest  men  and  women. 
Armenian  poetry  was  a  new  realm  to  almost  all,  and  stirred 
an  interest  in  the  (Armenian)  people  in  a  new  manner,  along 
new  lines." 


f\T/» 


TABLE   OF    CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 
BEDROS    TOURIAN. 

Pack 

Little  Lake 13 

Wishes  for  Armenia 16 

To  Love 19 

New  Dark  Days 22 

What  are  you,  Lcjve?       25 

I  HAVE  Loved  Thee 28 

In  Memoriam  ok  Vartan  Lutfian 30 

She 32 

Little  Gifts 33 

My  Grief 34 

Complaints 35 

Repentance 38 

MICHAEL    NALBANDIAN. 

Liberty 39 

Days  of  Childhood 41 

ARCHBISHOP    KH0R£NE    NAR   BEY   DE 
LUSIGNAN. 

Armenia 43 

The  Wandering  Armenian  to  the  Cloud     ...  45 

To  my  Sister 47 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Gentle  Breeze  of  Armenia 49 

Let  us  Live  Armenians 52 

Let  us  Die  Armenians 55 

The  First  Green  Leaves 58 

MUGURDITCH    BESHIKTASHLIAN. 

Death  of  a  Youth  of  Zeitoun 60 

Spring 62 

A  Brave  Son  of  Armenia 63 

We  are  Brothers 64 

RAPHAEL   PATKANIAN. 

Cradle  Song 66 

The  Tears  of  Araxes 68 

The  Armenian  Girl 72 

The  New  Generation 74 

Lullaby 75 

To  my  Nightingale 77 

Shall  we  be  Silent  ? 79 

If 82 

Praise  to  the  Sultan 84 

What  shall  we  Do  ? 85 

The  Sad-Faced  Moon 86 

Complaint  to  Europe ...  90 

Song  of  the  Van  Mother 92 

Easter  Song 94 

LEO   ALISHAN. 

The  Virgin's  Tears 95 

Easter  Song 97 

The  Exiles 98 

Moon  in  the  Armenian  Cemetery 99 

The  Lily  of  Shavarshan 103 

The  Nightingale  of  Avarair    .     .    . 107 

A  Song  of  Fatherland no 

Weep  not 112 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Page 

The  Christ-Child St.  Gregory  of  Narek  115 

Hymn Nerses  the  Gracejul  .  116 

Love  Song Sdiat  Nova.     ...  119 

A  Good  Comrade Djivan 121 

The  Youth  AND  THE  Streamlet 122 

The  Lake  ok  Van '' Kaffi'" 124 

Thou  and  I 125 

To  my  Sweetheart Koittcharian    .    .    .  127 

The  Chraghan  Palace    .     .     .     Terzyan 128 

The  Wandering  Armenian  to 

THE  Swallow Totocliian    ....  130 

Song  of  Revolution 132 

The  Lament  OF  Mother  Armenia 133 

The  Son  ok  Dalvorig  ....    Datnaa'ian  ....  135 


PART  II. 

ATOM   YARJANIAN   (SIAMANTO). 

Page 

The  Song  of  the  Knight 141 

The  Mother's  Dream 152 

Prayer 155 

My  Tears 157 

The  Young  Wife's  Dream 159 

Thirst 161 

The  Starving 162 


DANIEL  VAROUJAN. 

The  Longing  Letter 168 

The  Working  Girl 170 

Alms 172 

The  Aged  Crane 173 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

ARCHAG  TCHOBANIAN. 

Page 

The  Bond 175 

To  THE  Moon 177 

The  Wind 1 79 

Within  My  Heart 180 

The  Lullaby  of  Mother  Armenia 181 

HOVHANNES  TOUMANIAN. 

When  Some  Day 186 

Before  a  Painting  by  Ayvasovsky 187 

In  the  Cottage 188 

HOVHANNES  HOVHANNESSIAN. 

New  Spring 190 

The  Poet 192 

Song 194 

ZABEL  ASSATOUR   (MADAME   SYBIL). 

The  Incense 195 

The  Ideal 197 

Tears 199 

MUGURDITCH  CHRIMIAN  HAIRIG. 

Murmurs  of  a  Patriot 

The  Memorial  cf  the  Lamenting  Soldier    .     .     .  206 

Garine 209 

BEDROS  TOURIAN. 

At  Evening 214 

To  May        216 

My  Death 217 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


ARCHBISHOP  KHORENE  NAR  BEY  DE 

LUSIGNAN. 

Page 

Dawn 219 

The  Exile  TO  THE  Swallow 222 

M.  PORTOUKALIAN. 

The  Armenian  Girl 224 

The  Armenian  Maid's  Lament 227 

MIHRAN   DAMADIAN. 

The  Imprisoned  Revolutionist 230 

FuRPURCAR 233 

The  Lament  OF  Martyred  Sumpad's  Mother      .     .       237 

ARSHAG  D.  MAHDESIAN. 


The  Snow    .     . 
Thus  Spake  Man 


239 
240 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Love  Song  . 
The  Lake  of  Van 
The  Eagle's  Love 
The  Fatherland 
The  Sure  Hope 
The  Lullaby  of  Nazi 
The  Martyrs  of  Avarair 
The  Waves  on  the  Shore 
The  Dying  Poet    . 
The  Bouquet    .... 
Unhappy  Days  .... 


Nahabed  Koutchak. 

242 

Hagop  Melik  Ilagopian  (Raffi)  243 

Shoushanig  Khourghinian 

247 

Avcdik  Issalmkian 

249 

Raphael  Patkanian 

250 

A  vedis  Aharon  Ian  . 

251 

Karckin  Scrvantzdiantz 

253 

Bedros  Adamian    . 

255 

Tigrane  Yergate 

257 

Khorhie  M.  Anlrcassian 

259 

Djivan 

261 

TABLE    OF  CONTENTS. 

Paqb 

The  Prisoner  to  the  Swallow 263 

Homesickness 264 

The  Prisoner's  Dream 265 

The  Mother  Is  Like  Bread 267 

Parting  Song 268 

The  Wanderer 270 

The  Mother's  Lament 271 

The  Dead  Wife  to  Her  Husband 272 

The  Sister's  Lament 273 

Song  of  the  Emigrant's  Wife   . 274 

The  Orphan's  Lullaby 275 

A  Knock  at  the  Door 276 

The  Song  of  the  Goat 277 

The  Dark  Damsels 278 

Playmates 279 

Cradle  Song 280 

Lullaby 281 

Hushaby 282 

Sad  Snow 283 


APPENDIX. 


The  Armenian  Women 285 

The  Armenian  Church 289 

Bibliography 290 

Armenian  Poems — Comment   ,     .     .     .     .     .  292 


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